The Lady mourned his leaving in her own way, digging up plants and moving them about, the autumn crocuses three times, until they died from all the changes.
Tartary and Infanta wandered disconsolately about, their heads so low they plowed furrows in the soil with their horns. But for the longest time, it looked as if Wishart hadn’t even noticed the boy was gone. He just listened, ever more intently, at the Northeastern gate to the sounds of the sea.
And then one morning, a gale blowing out upon the Ocean, Wishart roused in a sudden and inexplicable fury and beat upon the gate with his feet and plunged his horn again and again into the wood. At last the gate broke open from the savage attack, swung wide, and in rushed the angry sea.
The waters covered the garden and the house. The Lady and the unicorns were swept away in a great swirl of foam as pearly white as horn. And after the waters settled again, all that could be seen was the topmost part of the Southwestern gate, the one closest to the World. And there, at low tide ever after, a black-backed gull sat, turning its head curiously at each passing breeze.
Of course that is not entirely the end of the story. I could not bear if that were so. Wishart and Tartary and Infanta became the very first narwhales, of course, those wonderful sleek whales with the long, twisting single horns.
The Lady built a new garden, this one under the Ocean, with bright anemones clinging to coral beds, like rockeries.
And Waverly, in the shape of a porpoise, comes to visit them every day and twice on Tuesdays, as regular as clockwork. Or so I like to think. And since this is my story, that is the way of it. If you think there is a different ending, you will have to tell it yourself.
Mythological Beast
Stephen R. Donaldson
NORMAN WAS A perfectly safe, perfectly sane man. He lived with his wife and son, who were both perfectly safe, perfectly sane, in a world that was perfectly sane, perfectly safe. It had been that way all his life. So when he woke up that morning, he felt as perfect as always. He had no inkling at all of the things that had already started to happen to him.
As usual, he woke up when he heard the signal from the biomitter cybernetically attached to his wrist; and, as usual, the first thing he did was to press the stud which activated the biomitter’s LED readout. The display gleamed greenly for a moment on the small screen. As usual, it said, You are OK. There was nothing to be afraid of.
As usual, he had absolutely no idea what he would have done if it had said anything else.
His wife, Sally, was already up. Her signal came before his so that she would have time to use the bathroom and get breakfast started. That way, there would be no unpleasant hurrying. He rolled out of bed promptly and went to take his turn in the bathroom so that he would not be late for work and his son, Enwell, would not be late for school.
Everything in the bathroom was the same as usual. Even though Sally had just used it, the vacuum-sink was spotless. And the toilet was as clean as new. He could not even detect his wife’s warmth on the seat. Everything was perfectly safe, perfectly sane. His reflection in the mirror was the only thing that had changed.
The tight lump in the center of his forehead made no sense to him. He had never seen it before. Automatically, he checked his biomitter, but again it said, You are OK. That seemed true enough. He did not feel ill—and he was almost the only person he knew who knew what “ill” meant. The lump did not hurt in any way. But still he felt vaguely uneasy. He trusted the biomitter. It should have been able to tell him what was happening.
Carefully, he explored the lump. It was as hard as bone. In fact, it seemed to be part of his skull. It looked familiar; and he scanned back in his memory through some of the books he had read until he found what he wanted. His lump looked like the base of a horn or perhaps the nub of a new antler. He had seen such things in books.
That made even less sense. His face wore an unusual frown as he finished in the bathroom. He returned to the bedroom to get dressed and then went to the kitchen for breakfast.
Sally was just putting his food on the table—the same juice, cereal, and soyham that she always served him—a perfectly safe meal that would give him energy for the morning without letting him gain weight or become ill. He sat down to eat it as he always did. But when Sally sat down opposite him, he looked at her and said, “What’s this thing on my forehead?”
His wife had a round, bland face, and its lines had slowly become blurred over the years. She looked at his lump vaguely, but there was no recognition in her eyes. “Are you OK?” she said.
He touched the stud of his biomitter and showed her that he was OK.
Automatically, she checked her own biomitter and got the same answer. Then she looked at him again. This time, she, too, frowned. “It shouldn’t be there,” she said.
Enwell came into the kitchen, and Sally went to get his breakfast. Enwell was a growing boy. He watched the food come as if he were hungry, and then he began to eat quickly. He was eating too quickly. But Norman did not need to say anything. Enwell’s biomitter gave a low hum and displayed in kind yellow letters: Eat more slowly. Enwell obeyed with a shrug.
Norman smiled at his son’s obedience, then frowned again. He trusted his biomitter. It should be able to explain the lump on his forehead. Using the proper code, he tapped on the face of the display, / need a doctor. A doctor would know what was happening to him.
His biomitter replied, You are OK.
This did not surprise him. It was standard procedure—the biomitter was only doing its job by reassuring him. He tapped again, / need a doctor. This time, the green letters said promptly, Excused from work. Go to Medical Building room 218.
Enwell’s biomitter signaled that it was time for him to go to school. “Got to go,” he mumbled as he left the table. If he saw the lump on his father’s forehead, he did not think enough about it to say anything. Soon he had left the house. As usual, he was on time.
Norman rubbed his lump. The hard bone nub made him feel uneasy again. He resisted an urge to recheck his biomitter. When he had finished his breakfast, he said good-bye to Sally, as he always did when he was going to work. Then he went out to the garage and got into his mobile.
After he had strapped himself in, he punched the address of the Medical Building into the console. He knew where the Medical Building was, not because he had ever been there before (in fact, no one he knew had ever been there), but because it was within sight of the National Library, where he worked. Once the address was locked in, his mobile left the garage smoothly on its balloon tires (a perfectly safe design), and slid easily into the perfectly sane flow of the traffic.
All the houses on this street were identical for a long way in either direction, and as usual Norman paid no attention to them. He did not need to watch the traffic, since his mobile took care of things like that. His seat was perfectly comfortable. He just relaxed in his safety straps and tried not to feel concerned about his lump until his mobile deposited him on the curb outside the Medical Building.
This building was much taller and longer than the National Library; but, apart from that, the two were very much alike. Both were empty except for the people who worked there; and the people worked there because they needed jobs, not because there was any work that needed to be done. And both were similarly laid out inside. Norman had no trouble finding his way to room 218.
Room 218 was in the Iatrogenics Wing. In the outer office was a desk with a computer terminal very much like the one Norman used at the library, and at the desk sat a young woman with yellow hair and confused eyes. When Norman entered her office, she stared at him as if he were sick. Her stare made him touch his lump and frown. But she was not staring at his forehead. After a moment, she said, “It’s been so long—I’ve forgotten what to do.”
“Maybe I should tell you my name,” he said.
“That sounds right,” she said. She sounded relieved. “Yes, I think that’s right. Tell me your name.”
He told her. She looked around th
e terminal, then pushed a button to engage some kind of program. “Now what?” he said.
“I don’t know,” she said. She did not seem to like being so confused.
Norman did not know, either. But almost at once the door to the inner office opened. The woman shrugged, so Norman just walked through the doorway.
The inner office had been designed to be cozy, but something had gone wrong with its atmospherics, and now it was deep in dust. When Norman sat down in the only chair, he raised the dust, and the dust made him cough.
“I’m Dr. Brett,” a voice said. “You seem to have a cough.”
The voice came from a console that faced the chair. Apparently, Dr. Brett was a computer who looked just like the director of the National Library. Norman relaxed automatically. He naturally trusted a computer like that. “No,” he said. “It’s the dust.”
“Ah, the dust,” the computer said. “I’ll make a note to have it removed.” His voice sounded wise and old and very rusty. After a moment, he went on. “There must be something wrong with my scanners. You look healthy to me.”
Norman said, “My biomitter says I’m OK.”
“Well, then my scanners must be right. You’re in perfect health. Why did you come?”
“I have a lump on my forehead.”
“A lump?” Dr. Brett hummed. “It looks healthy to me. Are you sure it isn’t natural?”
“Yes.” For an instant, Norman felt unnaturally irritated. He touched the lump with his fingers. It was as hard as bone—no, harder, as hard as steel, magnasite. It was as hard as tung-diamonds. He began to wonder why he had bothered to come here.
“Of course, of course,” the doctor said. “I’ve checked your records. You weren’t born with it. What do you think it is?”
The question surprised Norman. “How should I know? I thought you would tell me.”
“Of course,” said the computer. “You can trust me. I’ll tell you everything that’s good for you. That’s what I’m here for. You know that. The director of the National Library speaks very highly of you. It’s in your records.”
The machine’s voice made Norman’s irritation evaporate. He trusted his biomitter. He trusted Dr. Brett. He settled himself in the chair to hear what his lump was. But even that amount of movement raised the dust. He sneezed twice.
Dr. Brett said, “You seem to have a cold.”
“No,” Norman said. “It’s the dust.”
“Ah, the dust,” Dr. Brett said. “Thank you for coming.”
‘“Thank you for—’?” Norman was surprised. All at once, he felt very uneasy. He felt that he had to be careful. “Aren’t you going to tell me what it is?”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” the doctor said. “You’re perfectly healthy. It will go away in a couple of days. Thank you for coming.”
The door was open. Norman stared at the computer. The director did not act like this. He was confused. But he did not ask any more questions. Instead, he was careful. He said, “Thank you, Doctor,” and walked out of the office. The door closed behind him.
The woman was still sitting at the outer desk. When she saw Norman, she beckoned to him. “Maybe you can help me,” she said.
“Yes?” he said.
“I remember what I’m supposed to do now,” she said. “After you see the doctor, I’m supposed to get his instructions”—she tapped the console—“and make sure you understand them. But nobody’s ever come here before. And when I got this job, I didn’t tell them”—she looked away from Norman—“that I don’t know how to read.”
Norman knew what she meant. Of course, she could read her biomitter—everybody could do that. But except for that, reading was not taught anymore. Enwell certainly was not learning how to read in school. Reading was not needed anymore. Except for the people at the National Library, Norman was the only person he knew who could actually read. That was why no one ever came to use the library.
But now he was being careful. He smiled to reassure the woman and walked around the desk to look at her console. She tapped the display to activate the readout.
At once, vivid red letters sprang across the screen. They said:
SECRET CONFIDENTIAL PRIVATE PERSONAL SECRETcy UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES REPEAT UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOW THIS DIAGNOSIS TO PATIENT OR REVEAL ITS CONTENTScyclecycle
Then there was a series of numbers that Norman did not understand. Then the letters said:
ABSOLUTE PRIORITY TRANSMIT AT ONCE TO GENERAL HOSPITAL EMERGENCY DIVISION REPEAT EMERGENCYc DIVISION ABSOLUTE PRIORITY cyclecyclecyclecyclecyclecyclecy
“Transmit,” the woman said. “That means I’m supposed to send this to the hospital.” Her hand moved toward the buttons that would send the message.
Norman caught her wrist. “No,” he said. “That isn’t what it means. It means something else.”
The woman said, “Oh.”
The bright red letters said:
DIAGNOSIS cyclecyclecyclecyclecy PATIENT SUFFERING FROM MASSIVE GENETIC BREAKDOWN OF INTERMEDIATE ORIGIN COMPLETE REPEAT COMPLETE STRUCTURAL TRANSITION IN PROGRESS TRANSMUTATION IRREVERSIBLE cyclecyclecyclecyclecyclecyclec PROGNOSIScyclecyclecyclecyclecy PATIENT WILL BECOME DANGEROUS HIMSELF AND WILL CAUSE FEAR IN OTHERS REPEAT WILL CAUSE FEAR TREATMENTcyclecyclecyclecyclec STUDY RECOMMENDED BUT DESTRUCTION IMPERATIVE REPEAT IMPERATIVE REPEAT IMPERATIVE EFFECT SOONESTcyclecyclecyclecyclecyclecyelecy
“What did it say?” the woman said.
For a moment, Norman did not answer. His lump was as hard as a magnasite nail driven into his skull. Then he said, “It said I should get some rest. It said I’ve been working too hard. It said I should go to the hospital if I don’t feel better tomorrow.” Before the woman could stop him, he pressed the buttons that erased the terminal’s memory. The terminal was just like the one he used in the National Library, and he knew what to do. After erasing, he programmed the terminal to cancel everything that had happened today. Then he fed in a cancel program to wipe out everything in the terminal. He did not know what good that would do, but he did it anyway.
He expected the woman to try to stop him, but she did not. She had no idea of what he was doing. He was sweating, and his pulse was too fast. He was so uneasy that his stomach hurt. That had never happened to him before. He left the office without saying anything to the woman. His knees were trembling. As he walked down the corridor of the Iatrogenics Wing, his biomitter was saying in blue reassuring letters, You will be OK. You will be OK.
Apparently, his erasures were successful. In the next few days, nothing happened to him as a result of Dr. Brett’s report. By the time he had returned home from the Medical Building, his readout had regained its placid green, You are OK.
He had done this deliberately. He did not feel OK. He felt uneasy. But he did not want his biomitter to send him to the General Hospital. So while his mobile drove him home, he had made an effort to seem OK. The touch of his lump gave him a strange reassurance, and after a while his pulse, blood pressure, respiration, reflexes had become as steady as usual.
And at home everything seemed perfectly sane, perfectly safe. He woke up every morning at the signal of his biomitter, went to work at the signal of his biomitter, ate lunch at the signal of his biomitter. This was reassuring. It reassured him that his biomitter took such good care of him. Without it, he might have worked all day without lunch, reading, sorting the mountain of discarded books in the storeroom, feeding them into the reference computer. At times like that, his uneasiness went away. He went home again at the end of the day at the signal of his biomitter.
But at home his uneasiness returned. Something was happening inside him. Every morning, he saw in the mirror that his lump was growing. It was clearly a horn now—a pointed shaft as white as bone. It was full of strength. When it was more than four inches long, he tested it on the mirror. The mirror was made of glasteel so that it would never shatter and hurt anybody. But he scratched it easily with the tip of his horn. Scratching it took no effort at all.
&nbs
p; And that was not the only change. The soles of his feet were growing harder. His feet seemed to be getting shorter. They were starting to look like hooves.
Tufts of pure white hair as clean as the sky were sprouting from the backs of his calves and the back of his neck. Something that might have been a tail grew out of the small of his back.
But these things were not what made him uneasy. And he was not uneasy because he was thinking that someone from the hospital might come to destroy him. He was not thinking that at all. He was being careful: he did not let himself think anything that might make his biomitter call for help. No, he was uneasy because he could not understand what Sally and Enwell were doing about what was happening to him.
They were not doing anything. They were ignoring the changes in him as if he looked just the same as always.
Everything was perfectly sane, perfectly safe, to them.
First this made him uneasy. Then it made him angry. Something important was happening to him, and they did not even see it. Finally at breakfast one morning he became too irritated to be careful. Enwell’s biomitter signaled that it was time for him to go to school. He mumbled, “Got to go,” and left the table. Soon he had left the house. Norman watched his son go. Then he said to Sally, “Who taught him to do that?”
She did not look up from her soyham. “Do what?” she said.
“Go to school,” he said. “Obey his biomitter. We never taught him to do that.”
Sally’s mouth was full. She waited until she swallowed. Then she said, “Everybody does it.”
The way she said it made his muscles tighten. A line of sweat ran down his back. For an instant, he wanted to hit the table with his hand—hit it with the hard flat place on the palm of his hand. He felt sure he could break the table.
Then his biomitter signaled to him. Automatically, he left the table. He knew what to do. He always knew what to do when his biomitter signaled. He went out to the garage and got into his mobile. He strapped himself into the seat. He did not notice what he was doing until he saw that his hands had punched in the address of the General Hospital.
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