“She’s a little more coherent now,” he began.
“You fellows don’t waste a minute,” she said, by way of greeting.
“I’ve learned that as soon as they come around, you gotta move them from an unsupervised bed to a detox cubicle. They need the bouncing-around room. Besides, she’s burning off the effects of the sedative unusually fast.”
“Does that mean anything?”
“I think it means her metabolism has unleashed itself, now that the cycle of Stabilite has been broken. I’ve seen withdrawal take anywhere from a week to two, but if she’s become conscious this quickly, my guess is the process is going to rip through her like a tornado.”
“Why doesn’t that sound encouraging?”
“Because it’s not. She’s going to be hit with every kind of trauma there is in a very short period of time.”
“Are you saying she won’t survive?”
“If I knew that for sure, I would’ve put you in a cab and sent you home. All I’m saying is, I’ve only had one other patient in accelerated withdrawal . . .”
“. . . and she didn’t make it.”
“He. And no, he didn’t.” A beat. “On the other hand, he didn’t have another Newcomer to take him through it minute by minute. Like what you’re about to do.” Another beat. “You’re sure you know what you’re about to do?”
“Yes. And no. But mostly yes. I think.”
“Well, either way, you’re braver by far than I.”
“I doubt that.”
“Don’t.”
He reached into a pocket of his lab coat, held out a wrist band.
“Here it is. Do I need to take you through it again?”
“No. The green button alerts the on-call nurse at the desk to check the closed-circuit monitor, in case there’s something I want you guys to see. The red button is the alarm for an emergency. If I need help getting out.”
“Right. Now, for leaving the cube on your own steam, do you remember the code?”
“Yes, 3051, and I’m to cover the keypad with my palm so the patient doesn’t figure out the sequence.”
“Okay.”
He strapped the band to her wrist and, when he was done, held her hand a few moments longer than necessary. She didn’t mind. It wasn’t a romantic gesture but rather an acknowledgment of admiration for her courage. She nodded, and he let go.
Then she moved to the door, looked through the small, wire-enforced window. Studio apt, 1 rm, unfrnshd, padded, she thought.
At first glance Fran wasn’t visible. Just the rubber-colored walls and floor. In the opposite right corner, a toilet and sink were installed. Cathy almost said, “I can’t see her,” and then remembered to look at the high left corner, to the rounded mirror behind the wire mesh shield, which gave a fun-house perspective of the whole room. It showed that Fran was huddled in the corner on Cathy’s left, against the wall that was flush with the door. (What it didn’t show was the video camera behind the mirror, which was, of course, a two-way affair.)
Fran’s position relative to the door meant that Cathy would have to exercise caution going in. As she’d been briefed, the cell door swung inward, left. Sometimes “they” liked to spring at you when you entered, using the door as a nice, versatile weapon. “They” could ram it into you if you were behind it; ram you into it, if it was behind you; sandwich you or any part of you between the door and the frame . . . a door could do all kinds of serious damage.
Not that Fran seemed poised to attack. She was seated. Leaning up against the wall, head back, dark circles under closed eyes, looking a little wasted, as if she’d merely slept badly. Feet apart, knees bent, in repose.
Attractive, human, unremarkable.
Except for the straitjacket.
Cathy reached for the control panel on the side of the door, punched in the code, and the electronic lock snicked open.
Steinbach waited until Cathy had entered the cubicle. Waited while the hydraulic loaded door had hissed shut behind her and the lock had snicked shut. Through the window, he saw her wince slightly at the sound.
Then he walked to the nurse’s station to check the monitor and make sure the camera was working properly.
It was.
He was watching Cathy speaking with Fran when his superior, Dr. Casey, showed up.
“How’s she look?” asked the big, basso-voiced Newcomer.
Steinbach guessed he meant the patient. “Too soon to tell,” he replied. “Every indication of being a rough ride, though.”
“How rough?”
“Industrial strength.”
Casey signaled the head nurse, addressed her and Steinbach both.
“Our Ms. Frankel is a noble volunteer, but you pull her out at the first sign of danger, I don’t care how vehemently she insists she has it under control. You’re not to make a judgment call, you’re to err on the side of caution.”
Steinbach and the nurse nodded soberly.
Fran’s head turned slowly to meet Cathy’s gaze.
“I know you?” Voice a bit dulled, still druggy.
“We’ve been touching base, on and off, since last night. I don’t expect you to remember.”
“What am I doing here?”
“Has nobody told you?”
“I need my medication. I tried to explain to them.”
“Your medication is why you’re here. I’m here to help you with your Leethaag.”
Fran’s eyes went wide at recognition of the Tenctonese word that meant “The Healing.” She tried to cover the recognition by shaking her head emphatically. It looked more like she was trying to shake off the last vestiges of sedative.
“No,” she said. Then with each rock of her head, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. I don’t know what that thing is you say. I have high blood pressure. I need—”
“Fran, this is a hospital. You’re surrounded by doctors. You can’t keep it up, not in here.”
“I need my medication,” she repeated hoarsely.
“No, that’s the last thing you need. It was killing you.”
Fran Delaney beat her head against the padded wall three times. “They told me it was saaaafe,” she whimpered.
“I know. They lied.”
Fran buried her face in the padding of the wall, sniffled a while. Cathy tried another tack.
“I saw you perform last night. You were magnificent.”
Fran’s eyes closed, shutting back tears. She sniffled, did not turn away from the wall.
“Thank you.” A long pause. “Looks as if you caught the farewell performance.”
Cathy moved in closer. “It doesn’t have to be like that.”
Sharply, suddenly, head whipping about: “What would you know about it?”
The abruptness startled Cathy. Alerted her, too, that despite any appearances to the contrary, normalcy was simply not a guest in this room.
“I know that our people can do anything,” she replied, quietly, choosing to ignore that the question had been rhetorical.
“Civilians,” muttered Fran disdainfully.
Then she looked up at Cathy, really looked at her for the first time. Taking her measure.
“Tell you something, civilian,” she said, and this time the word did not sound unkind, “I used to be pretty like you. Now I’m pretty like this . . . This is what pays the bills.”
Cathy crouched down at a slight distance.
“I don’t think it was ever about paying the bills for you, Fran. At least not primarily about that. I saw you last night, I saw how . . . how you transformed yourself. Not cosmetically. I mean the other way. It’s a remarkable gift. And it must be a remarkable release, borne of a remarkable need. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have such a gift and . . . and feel as if you couldn’t share it, express it, use it.”
One corner of Fran’s mouth lifted.
“Yeah. Yeah, you can. You’re pretty smart for a civilian.”
“Thanks.”
“You a doctor?”
“In a sense. Biochemist.”
“You don’t have patients, then?”
Cathy allowed herself to sit.
“Just you,” she said.
“And what is so special about me that you feel compelled to guide me through a Leethaag?”
Cathy considered the various ways to answer that question.
She could mention being here on behalf of Matt Sikes. But Matt had been vague about the nature of his relationship with Fran. And Fran had bolted from Matt at the theatre last night. Big gamble, with those facts in evidence, to assume that Fran held Matt warmly in her hearts. The bond she’d created with Fran was fragile enough. Any mention of Matt might undo it completely, with no chance of repair.
I’m here on behalf of a friend. Another possible way to answer Fran’s question. But such a response would certainly arouse Fran’s curiosity, and it might complicate matters later.
The best answer was a no-frills truth.
“I’m a volunteer,” said Cathy. Probably Fran would assume there was some kind of official program.
“Oh,” responded Fran. “A do-gooder.”
Fine. Let her.
“Curious phrase, do-gooder,” Fran continued after a while. “It always sounded backwards to me. Shouldn’t it be good-doer?”
Cathy laughed a little. “I take your point.”
Fran laughed too.
Moment of connection. The first.
“I was a do-gooder once,” Fran said wistfully.
“Tell me?”
“Might,” Fran replied easily, so easily that when she slipped in, “Think we might take this thing off for a while?”—talking, of course, about the straitjacket—Cathy was barely aware of the desperate manipulation.
They will do anything to get loose, Steinbach had warned. That’s a step removed from getting out. And that’s a step closer to the drug.
And this one’s an actress, Cathy reminded herself. A great one.
“Let’s see how it goes first,” Cathy replied, just as casually—but, wow, did something go hard in Fran’s eyes, and, wow, did it happen fast.
“Sure, I know what that’s about.” Fran said it calmly, but with a layer of frost, and made a tacit point of looking away.
Cathy reached out hesitantly to touch Fran. Lightly, barely a brush, nothing too familiar, just . . . an overture. Something. Damage control.
“I’m going to have to earn your trust, I know that. But if it’s anything to start with, I am in this for the long haul. I’ll be here for you . . . all the way.”
Fran shrugged under the straitjacket.
“Good,” she said.
Yes, he’d better love me a whole lot, thought Cathy.
And on that note the Leethaag began.
C H A P T E R 7
THE STORYBOARD LAID out like this . . .
PANEL ONE: Start out with a Tenctonese businesswoman in a swank restaurant; she’s as classy as her surroundings, a genuine stunner in a form-hugging business outfit, just sexy enough to raise eyebrows, though not so revealing that you get any vibe from her other than top-of-the-line smarts. It’s lunch hour, and in the background, with all the suits, attaché cases and cellular phones around, we know this woman is a serious player.
PANEL TWO: The waiter serves her prelunch cocktail, a sour-milk-and-strawberry daiquiri.
PANEL THREE: And as she starts to raise it to her lips—
PANEL FOUR: A glimpse of her earlier in the morning, huddled with a human male client, poring over paperwork, real face-to-face stuff. (This panel is shaded in sepia, the idea to indicate that, on film, we’d cut from full-color steadicam shots to hand-held cinema verite stuff, the better to instantly distinguish between the restaurant and the rest of her day.)
PANEL FIVE: Back at the five-star feed, and now starters are being served, raw beaver tail in an endive sauce over purple cabbage with slices of carrot and raisins.
PANEL SIX: She starts to eat, delicately forking a slice into her mouth and—
PANEL SEVEN: Another part of her day, she’s at a department store, the jewelry counter, the salesgirl helping her adjust a very elegant earring, and, as before, the faces are close and—
PANEL EIGHT: The restaurant again, an over-the-shoulder angle on our heroine, as the main course is placed on the table: a half weasel covered in a special, cold orange glaze and we proceed to—
PANEL NINE: —and in this one we don’t see her chow down (because we’ve seen her eating twice now, no need to be artlessly schematic), we just see her beautiful face turn up to thank the waiter, and if we’re alert (and if all goes well, we should be), we’re starting to detect a pattern. She’s eating some pretty odiferous stuff—at least by human standards—and yet she has to interact on a constant, face-to-face basis with humans. And, to make the point emphatically—
PANELS TEN and ELEVEN: She races for, and gets into, a crowded elevator, a seriously crowded elevator, and as the doors close, we return to—
PANEL TWELVE: —the restaurant, one last time. Our heroine is spooning the last of her dessert from a parfait glass. This time we don’t see what she’s eating, but chances are it’s just as Newcomer-specific as every other course. And that explains why—
PANEL THIRTEEN: —she reaches into her pocketbook and her hand emerges holding—
PANEL FOURTEEN: —a tiny breath-spray vial and—
PANEL FIFTEEN: —she opens her sensual mouth and gives herself a discreet little spritz.
PANEL SIXTEEN: Insert of the product in its various forms. Bottled mouthwash, breath spray, breath mints. Especially prominent is the logo design. It resembles a famous work of art in one respect: looked at one way, it’s the silhouette of a goblet (and one might imagine that goblet filled with sour milk). Looked at another way, it’s the silhouette of two faces, nose to nose. Difference between the logo and its famous progenitor is in ours the goblet shape appears engagingly uneven. That’s because when your eyes invert the silhouette to perceive faces, you realize that one face is the silhouette of a human, the other the silhouette of a Newcomer. The product name, underneath, in a Chicago-based font, reads: TENCTON-EASE.
PANEL SEVENTEEN: The last. The Newcomer businesswoman exiting the restaurant, returning to the hustle and the bustle of the streets, the fast-paced rhythm of her consequential life. And over this, the slogan, the moral of our story:
“Tencton-ease. It helps. Face it.”
“Well, it couldn’t be finer,” Jonathan Besterman said. “I like it a lot. And I love the logo.”
Jonathan was one of Susan’s coworkers. He was slim, brown-haired, good-humored, managing to be very friendly while staying a little bit remote; an interesting fellow from Chicago (just like the logo font), whose speech was flavored with that city’s characteristic broad a. It was rumored that he was homosexual, and it was rumored that he was not, but he never betrayed his preference either way, not at work. He was no less an enigma to Susan than to anyone else in the office, but she tended to gravitate toward his energy, which was positive and enthusiastic. Very much so, right now.
“Yeah. Classy. Understated. To the point.” A beat. “A little funny . . .”
Susan blinked. A bit defensively, she said, “I didn’t mean for it to be funny.”
Jonathan held up a soothing hand. “I know, I know, and that’s okay. I just want to prepare you, that’s all. You’re gonna get some smiles, and they shouldn’t throw you. Smiles are good if you’re hip to them.”
They were standing in the plush, blue-carpeted office of one of their bosses, account executive Keith Berries. Neither Keith, nor the client for whom Susan’s pitch was designed, was there at the moment. Susan had been allowed this advance time to set up her presentation. Jonathan, a more experienced hand at the ad game than she, had volunteered to help her with some last minute refinements. And encouragement.
Or at least what should have been encouragement. The “smiles” part was throwing her.
“Why should anyone smile?”
Jo
nathan spread his hands, shrugging in a way that made him resemble Tevye the dairyman in Fiddler on the Roof. “Like your slogan says, face it. You’re about to show a coupla white guys a woman eating weasel in a five-star restaurant. To most of them it’s a total incongruity. And, even though they’ll be too smart to say anything, you can just bet they’ll be making off-color jokes to themselves about the appetizer.”
“What kind of jokes can they make about a simple appetizer of—”
“I’ll tell you later. But, as I say, that shouldn’t be a problem. If you know it’s gonna happen, you can roll with it. Keep in mind that the ad is directed at Newcomers, not humans. Make sure they keep it in mind, and I think you’re gonna come outta this smelling like money.”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t know that money smells like anything much.”
“As long as it smells like something they want.” Jonathan took one last look at the easel holding the storyboard sketches, made a Here, help me gesture, and they grabbed the easel on either side. “Move it a bit more to the left where the light is better, if they’re gonna be sitting where those chairs are.”
He stood back, appraised everything once more.
“Beauty.”
There was a tap on the door, which then opened, with, no pretense at waiting for a response. Keith Berries stuck his head in.
“You ready?”
As always, the voice was soft, but authoritative.
“Willing and able,” Jonathan said on Susan’s behalf, for which she was grateful.
“All right, veddy good,” Berries said lightly, and entered.
He was a tall, solidly built man with close-cropped red hair and a fashionable mustache. He was renowned, justifiably, for his brilliance at the ad game; for being one of those uncanny fellows who could look at a problem from five different angles simultaneously, drawing upon not only the perspective of his own long experience, but the history of media advertising in America, which he knew cold. “Cold” likewise described the impression he left on most people. The same objective detachment that allowed him to function so effectively at his job also limited his personal appeal.
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