by Jack Vance
“Hysterical blindness. That’s the word I was thinking of. Could she be suffering from that?”
Krebius made the same non-committal gesture. Aiken felt in him a lessening of suspicion and hostility. “Perhaps. But I think not. The optic nerve no longer functions correctly, although in many ways it reacts like perfectly healthy tissue. Carol is victim to a unique disability. The cause, who knows? Glare? Electricity? Shock? Terror? In the absence of precedent, I must strike out for myself. I attempt to stimulate the nerve; I have devised special equipment. I love her as my own child.” Krebius leaned forward, pounded the desk for emphasis.
“What are her chances of seeing again?”
Krebius leaned back in his chair, looked away. “I do not know. I think she will see—sometime.”
“Your treatments are helping her?”
“I believe and trust so.”
“One more question, Doctor. How does Victor Martinon fit into the picture?”
Krebius became subtly uncomfortable. “He is her mother’s friend. In fact—” His voice trailed off. “In fact it is said at one time—”
Aiken nodded. “I see. But why—”
Krebius interrupted him. “Victor is helping me. He is interested in therapy.”
“Victor Martinon?” Aiken laughed in such sardonic disbelief that Krebius flushed. “I can easily see Martinon playing in a Salvation Army Band.”
“Nevertheless,” said Krebius, “he assists me in giving treatments.”
“To Carol?”
“Yes. To Carol.” Krebius was once again stubborn and hostile. His eyes glared, his white eyebrows bristled, his chin thrust out. In an icy voice he asked, “May I ask your interest in Carol?”
Aiken had been expecting the question, but had no easy answer ready. He fidgeted uncomfortably. “I’d rather not answer that question…You can think of it as a romantic interest.”
Krebius’ busy eyebrows rose in surprise. “Romance? Little Carol? A child yet!”
“Perhaps you don’t know her as well as you think you do.”
“Perhaps not,” muttered Krebius deep in thought. “Perhaps not. The little ones grow up so fast.”
“Incidentally,” Aiken asked, “does Carol have any sisters? Or a cousin who looks like her?”
“No. Nothing. No one.”
Aiken said no more. He rose to his feet. “I won’t take up your time, Doctor. But I’d like to talk to Carol, if I may.”
Krebius stared up truculently as if he might refuse, then shrugged and grunted. “I have no objections. She must not leave the hospital. She is in my care.”
“Thank you.” Aiken left the office, went to the reception desk. Martinon was just coming in through the main entrance. At the sight of Aiken his pace slackened.
“Hello, Aiken. What are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same of you.”
“I have business here.”
“So have I.” Aiken turned to the nurse. “I’d like to speak to Carol Bannister. Dr. Krebius gave me permission.”
“I’ll ring for her. You can wait in the reception room.”
“Thanks.” Aiken nodded to Martinon, went into the reception room which opened off the lobby, across from Krebius’ office.
Martinon looked after him, turned, walked into Krebius’ office without knocking.
Time passed. Aiken sat on the edge of his chair, his hands moist. He was extremely nervous, and correspondingly annoyed at himself. Who would come through the door? Carol Bannister? Vasillissa? Was he confused, mistaken, making a fool of himself? The minutes passed, and Aiken could no longer sit still. He rose to his feet, moved around the room. Through the open door he saw Martinon come into the lobby followed by Dr. Krebius. Martinon was pale and glittering-eyed. Krebius looked surly. They marched up the corridor, neither speaking to the other, and disappeared into a room next to Krebius’ office, with Laboratory painted on the door.
The corridor was now empty. Aiken went back to the couch, forced himself to sit quietly.
A nurse appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Aiken?” she asked briskly.
“Yes.” He rose to his feet.
Carol came into the doorway, felt her way past the jamb. In her white blouse and gray flannel skirt she looked like a college freshman; her honey-colored hair was brushed till it shone. She seemed slighter and more fragile than Aiken had remembered, but of course his recollection was colored by the image of Vasillissa, agile, vital, reckless.
She looked uncertainly in Aiken’s direction, with wide, blank, Delft-blue eyes.
“Hello,” said Aiken in a voice that was not quite his own.
“Hello.” She was puzzled.
Aiken took her arm, led her to the couch. The nurse nodded briefly at Aiken, disappeared. “My name is James Aiken. I spoke to you in the hall yesterday.”
“Oh, yes. I remember now.”
Aiken was studying her face. Was this Carol? Or Vasillissa? And if she were Vasillissa, how did Carol see? He made up his mind. It was definite. There was something in the poise of the head, the slant of the jaw that was unmistakable. This was Vasillissa. But she lived in a new country, in a new time, unable to use her magic. The dove with the broken wing.
She moved restlessly. Aiken hastily said, “I suppose you’re wondering what I want.”
She laughed. “I’m glad you came. I get lonesome.”
“Dr. Krebius tells me you lost your sight in a lightning storm—”
Her face went instantly blank and cold. He had said the wrong thing.
“He says that it’s very likely you’ll see again.”
“Yes.”
“These treatments—do they do you any good?”
“You mean, the Opticon?”
“If that’s what they call it.”
“Well, up to three or four months ago I thought I saw the colors. You know, little flashes. But I don’t see them any more.”
“How long has Martinon been working with you?”
“Oh, about that long. He works differently from Doctor Krebius.”
“How?”
“Oh,” she shrugged. “He doesn’t do very much. Except read to me.”
Aiken was puzzled. “What good does that do?”
“I don’t know. I guess it keeps me amused while the machine is turned on.”
“Do you know that Martinon used to be a motion picture producer?”
“I know he used to work in the movies. He’s never told me exactly what he did.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Not very long. He says he used to know Mother. Mother was in the movies.”
“Yes, I know. Marya Leone.”
“She’s quite a drunk now,” Carol said in an even voice which might or might not conceal deep feeling. She turned her blank eyes toward him. “May I feel your face?”
“Certainly.”
Her fingertips felt his hair, forehead, brushed over his eye sockets, nose, mouth, chin. She made no comment.
“Well?” said Aiken.
“Are you a detective or something like that?”
“I’m a frustrated artist.”
“Oh. You’re asking so many questions.”
“Do you mind? I’ve got a lot more.”
“No. If you’ll answer some for me first.”
“Go ahead. Ask.”
She hesitated. “Well, why did you come to see me?”
Aiken smiled faintly. “I saw a movie last night, called Vasillissa the Enchanted Princess.”
“Oh? The fairy tale? I know that one very well. About Ivan and the wicked Czar of the Sea.”
“In this movie Vasillissa was a very beautiful girl. She had long silken hair like yours. She had blue eyes like yours. In fact—” Aiken hesitated over the fateful phrase “—in fact, she was you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You. Carol Bannister.”
Carol laughed. “You flatter me very much. I’ve never acted, not even in grammar school. Watching Mother emote kil
led any urge I had.”
“But it was you.”
“It couldn’t be!” She was smiling, half-worried, half-amused.
“The film was produced by Victor Martinon; Martinon’s been hanging around here. You live here. The coincidence is too great. There’s something fishy going on.”
Carol was silent. She was thinking. A queer look came over her face.
“Yesterday I saw another film,” said Aiken. “Part of The Odyssey.”
“The Odyssey…Victor read The Odyssey to me. Also The Enchanted Princess.”
“This is very strange,” said Aiken.
“Yes. And these last few days…” She was blushing, blushing pink scarlet.
“What’s the matter?”
“He’s been saying some rather awful things. Asking questions.”
Aiken felt the skin at the back of his neck slowly going taut. Carol turned her head, as if she could actually see him, swiftly put her hand up, touched his face. “Why, you’re angry!”
“Yes, I’m angry.”
“But why?” She was puzzled.
The words spilled out of Aiken’s mouth. “You may or may not understand. I saw this picture last night. I saw Vasillissa—this may seem very strange to you—but everything she did, every angle of her head, every motion of her head—they meant something to me. I sound like a high school boy, but I fell in love with Vasillissa. And I come here and see you.”
“But I’m not Vasillissa,” she said.
“Yes, you are. You’re Vasillissa under a spell. Vasillissa frozen in a block of ice. I want to help you, to make you the free Vasillissa again.”
Carol laughed. “You’re Ivan.”
“At heart,” said Aiken, “I’m Ivan.”
She reached up again, touched his face, and the touch had a different texture. It was less impersonal. “You don’t feel like Ivan.”
“I don’t look like Ivan.”
A figure loomed in the door. Carol dropped her hand, turned her head.
“Mr. Aiken,” said Krebius, “I would much appreciate a word with you in my office.”
Aiken slowly rose. “Just one minute, Doctor.”
“Now, if you don’t mind.”
“Very well.” Aiken turned to Carol, but she had stood up. She was holding his arm.
“Doctor,” she said, “does what you want to talk about concern me?”
“Yes, my child.”
“I’m not a child, Dr. Krebius. If it concerns me, I want to be with you.”
He looked at her in bewilderment. “But Carol, this will be men’s talk.”
“If it concerns me, I want to know.”
Aiken asked, “Are you planning to warn me off? If you are, you can save your breath.”
“Come with me!” barked Krebius. He turned, stamped across the lobby to his office, flung the door open.
Aiken, with Carol holding to his arm, started to walk through; Krebius put out his arm to bar Carol. “To your room, child!”
“You’ll talk to us both, Doctor,” Aiken said in a low voice. “And you’ll tell us both the truth, or I’ll go to the Board of Health and demand an investigation! I’ll charge you with malpractice.”
Krebius’ arm dropped like a wet sack. “You threaten me! I have nothing to hide! My reputation is of the utmost value!”
“Then why do you allow Martinon to use Carol as he has?”
Krebius became stern and stiff. “You speak of matters you know nothing of.”
Carol said, “I know nothing about them either.”
“Come in, then,” said Krebius. “Both of you.” He turned, stopped short, staring at his desk. Four glossy 8 × 10 photographs were lying face up. Krebius stumped hastily across the room, snatched the photographs, tried to stuff them under the blotter. His hands were shaking; one photograph fell to the floor. Aiken inspected it quizzically, lit a cigarette. Krebius grabbed up the photograph, furiously pushed it under the blotter with the others.
“It’s not true,” he said hoarsely. “It’s a fraud! A fake!” He jumped to his feet, banged his fist on the desk. “It’s nonsense of the worst sort!”
“Okay,” said Aiken. “I believe you.”
Krebius sat down, breathing heavily.
“Tell me,” said Aiken, “is Martinon blackmailing you with these pictures?”
Krebius looked at him dully.
“They’re nothing to worry about. If he showed them to anybody, he’d get in worse trouble than you would.”
Krebius shook his head. “I want you to leave this hospital, Mr. Aiken,” he croaked. “Never come back.”
“Doctor, tell us the truth. How did Martinon make those pictures? Somehow, he’s been photographing Carol’s thoughts.”
“My thoughts?” Carol drew a deep breath. “Photographing my thoughts?” She considered a minute or two. “Oh, golly!” She hid her face in her hands.
Krebius was leaning forward on his desk, hands clenched in his hair. “Yes,” he muttered. “May God forgive me.”
“But, Doctor!” cried Carol.
Krebius waved his hand. “I found it out when I first tried the Opticon. I noticed images, very faint. I was amazed.”
“‘Amazed’ is no word for the way I feel,” said Carol.
“I built this machine for you alone. You had a unique handicap—all the equipment for sight, but no vision. The Opticon was to stimulate the optic nerve. I could fire bursts of colored light into your retina, observe results through a microscope. I was astonished to find images on your retina.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?” Carol demanded.
“You would become self-conscious. Your thoughts would not flow freely. And it was only in you, one person in all the world, in whom I could see these marvels.” Dr. Krebius sat back in his chair. “We knew vision always as going one way. Light strikes the retina, the rods and cones send little electric messages to the visual center. In Carol the one way is cut off. But in her there is this reversible process. The energy comes down the optic nerve from the brain, it forms an image on the retina.
“I took some photographs. They were scientific curiosities. I went to your mother’s house to ask for money. She pays me nothing. I am not wealthy. I met Victor, and we drank whiskey.” Krebius narrowed his eyes. “I showed him the photographs. He wanted to experiment. I saw no great harm. There might be money for all of us. For you, Carol, for you most of all. I said yes, but the treatments must continue; no compromise with the cure!”
“But actually you don’t know what Victor’s been doing?”
“No. I thought there was no need.”
“He hasn’t been giving any treatments.”
Krebius sat silently.
“He doesn’t want Carol to see,” said Aiken. “She’s a gold mine for Victor.”
“Yes, yes. I see this now.”
“Also, she gave him a club over you.” Aiken turned to Carol. “Did Victor ever ask you about Doctor Krebius?”
Carol’s face was pink with embarrassment. “He asked some awful questions. I couldn’t help but think about what he was saying.”
“Carol has a strong visual imagination,” said Krebius mournfully. “It’s not her fault. But these pictures…”
“They’d never stand up in court.”
“No, but my reputation!”
Aiken said nothing.
Krebius muttered, “I’ve been a fool, a wicked fool. How may I expiate my weakness?” He rose, lurched over to Carol. “My dear girl,” he faltered. “I will cure you. You will see again. You have a good retina, you have a healthy optic nerve. Stimulation! We will make you see!” And he said humbly, “If only you will forgive me!”
Carol said something in a muffled voice. Her face was pinched, constricted. She seemed dazed.
Aiken said, “I’d like to call in somebody else for consultation. Doctor Barnett.”
“No,” said Krebius. “I have forgotten more about eyes than any man in California knows.”
“But do you know an
ything about the brain?”
Krebius was silent for a moment. Then, “You are obsessed with psychology. Today all is psychology—miracles. And good old-fashioned surgery goes out the window.”
“But certainly you’ve seen cases of hysterical blindness,” Aiken protested.
Carol said faintly, “I’m not hysterical. I’m just mad.”
“In the front lines,” said Aiken, “when something terrible happens, sometimes men can’t walk, or hear, or see. I’ve seen it happen.”
“I know all this,” said Krebius. “In Leipzig I have treated several such cases. Well, we will try.” He took a deep breath, took Carol’s hands. “My dear, do you agree to an experiment? It might be unpleasant.”
“What for?” she asked in a low voice.
“To help you to see!”
“What will you do?”
“First, a little injection to quiet the brain. To make it easy for you to talk.”
“But I don’t want to talk,” she said in a stony voice.
“Even if it will help you see?”
For a moment a refusal seemed to be on her lips, but she bit it back and said, “Very well. If you think it will help me.”
“Hello!” said Victor Martinon from the doorway. He looked from Krebius to Aiken to Carol, and back to Aiken. “You still here, Aiken? Must be wonderful to have time to waste. Let’s go, Carol. Time for exercises.”
“Not today, Victor,” said Krebius.
Martinon raised his handsome eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Today,” said Krebius, “we try something different.”
“Oh, so?” said Martinon in a tone of mild wonder.
“Come, Carol,” said Krebius. “To the Opticon. We will try to photograph the beast that rides your brain.”
Carol rose stiffly, walked through the door. Aiken followed. Out in the hall Martinon said, “I’m sorry, Aiken, but I don’t think Doctor Krebius wants strangers watching his treatments. Do you, Doctor?”
Krebius said stiffly, “Aiken comes if he likes.”
Martinon shrugged. “Just as you like. I won’t answer to Carol’s mother for the consequences.”