He clenched his fist. “Why can’t they leave me alone?” Moira reached over and took his arm.
“I guess,” she said, “it’ll be a long time before a clone has a private life.” She said it gently. He reacted angrily, slamming his fist against a small table in her room and knocking over a small sculpture of a cat. The sculpture crashed to the floor and his muscles tensed.
Moira’s voice grew harsh. “You’ve broken it. You didn’t have to do that.” He knew her mother had sculpted the cat for her years ago.
“It was a lousy sculpture,” he said. It was the wrong thing to say to Moira, who was already overly sensitive about her mother’s second-rate abilities as an artist. Her black eyes narrowed and the skin across the high cheekbones grew taut.
“So,” she hissed, “she’s not a good sculptor. She tries. At least she isn’t an egomaniac, convinced of her great worth, her invaluable abilities, she never needed to see five duplicates of herself around before she could feel secure.” She leaned over Jim, her black hair brushing his face. He looked away and kept picking up the broken pieces of the cat. “She wasn’t like the great Paul Swenson.”
Jim reached the end of the trail through the forest and paused far a moment. He turned and walked along the edge of the bicycle path near the road that wound past the houses surrounding the campus.
Duplicates.
The warm wind breathed softly, rustling the leaves over his head.
Duplicates of Paul Swenson. The wind hurried past him and was gone, leaving behind grassy odors.
Egomaniac. No, the Paul he had known was a gentle man, almost self-effacing. He had tried to communicate what he knew to as many people as possible, yet was embarrassed when he became regarded as an authority. Paul had only wanted to help humanity by perpetuating, in five new people, any abilities he had that could be of service. He had wanted a family.
So Jim had always thought. Yet it was at least possible that Paul might have been lured by dreams of a new and unique kind of immortality, or by an inner conviction that Paul Swenson was worthy of being reproduced in exact detail and duplication, five times. The line between a sense of personal worth and megalomania might be very thin. But that was a problem in any kind of parenthood.
Paul Swenson had been admired and honored once. But at the time of his death Jim had already sensed the attitudes of fear and skepticism that colored the feelings many people had about Paul. His father was no longer present to contradict them and his absence seemed to magnify the fears. The fact that the Russians had insisted on preserving his body had not helped. Cryonic freezing was sometimes used in emergencies, suspending a person’s life processes until specialists could reach him or a needed blood type could be found; it had worked in a few cases. But Paul’s frozen body was a memorial monument. Once again people near Paul had set him apart from other human beings. Jim had even heard rumors that Paul was not dead at all, that some part of him had taken possession of the clones.
He had thought that Moira, at least, knew better. But she had not known Paul and could only make judgments based on what she had heard or seen about him.
He sighed and moved closer to the edge of the path as two cyclists passed him. He thought of the others: Ed retreating from all social contact, residing in a tidy, ordered, mathematical world; Mike and his desire to leave them all and forget his origins; Al and his growing obsession with study, afraid that he would not be able to measure up to Paul’s achievements. He thought of Kira as well, hovering over them, concerned with their problems. Perhaps not, Jim thought, maybe she only thinks she should worry and would rather retreat to her own world. Maybe Paul had gone through the same thing. Jim considered what be had heard about Paul’s youth from his old friends, and dismissed it, People edit their pasts, he knew, and remember what fits their notions of themselves. There was no way of telling what Paul had really felt.
Jim left the bicycle path and turned down the road that led to his house. All five of them had remained there after Paul’s death. It was practical, near the university, comfortable and roomy. But Jim sometimes felt it was haunted by Paul’s ghost, watching them. He thought of Paul standing in the house observing them, perhaps with concern, perhaps laughing as he saw them play out his own youth, his own mistakes, seeing his own soul taking up residence in the five genetically identical bodies, as some thought it had. He shuddered at what else they might think.
The house was at the end of the road, its brown painted planks blending with the small grove of trees around it. Jim looked at the small hill on which the house stood and thought again of the contrast between the unpretentious dwelling and the somewhat grandiose view people had of Paul. He walked up to the front door, hesitated, then opened it slowly and entered the house.
He walked through the small alcove and stood in the living room, watching as the four turned to face him.
Al, thick brown hair to his shoulders.
Ed, clean-shaven with hair cropped to his skull.
Mike, pulling at his moustache.
Kira, with short wavy hair and the same face feminized.
They had all tried to differentiate themselves in the past couple of years, yet four sets of green eyes, copies of his own, looked at him and asked, are you all right, Jim?
“Jim?” Kira said. His brothers watched.
He turned and fled to his room.
Jim sat in front of Dr. Valois, feet propped on her desk, weaving images for her, speaking about portions of dreams, reaching into his pocket for a scrap of poetry he had jotted down to work on later. Emma Valois looked at him from her side of the desk, head nodding at intervals, hazel eyes gazing at him steadily. He continued to weave his verbal tapestry, trying to ignore the anxiety gnawing at him. The psychiatrist continued to nod.
Dr. Valois had observed their psychological development for as long as Jim could remember. When they were children she had seen them only infrequently, talking with them and allowing them to play with the machines in her office. When they had found it difficult to talk with her they would sit in Psyche, her computer booth. Psyche had listened to their problems and set up games for them to play. Jim had enjoyed the games; the construction of holograms, word association, scenarios in which he and the computer would take opposing sides.
After Paul’s death, they had all, except for Mike, visited Dr. Valois more often. I guess they thought we’d need a psychiatrist. They expected us to be freaks. He read the poetry to Dr. Valois and continued to avoid speaking about the feeling of despair that had brought him to her office, He could not bring himself to express it. He put the paper back in his pocket. Dr. Valois nodded.
Jim removed his feet from the desk and stood up. “I’ve got some work to do. In the library,” he mumbled.
“You have nothing else to say?” She probably suspected him of concealing something.
“No.”
“Something’s bothering you, Jim.”
“I’m all right, really. It’s just a mood.” He hurried from the office, slowed down in the hallway and moved toward the elevator. He stepped into it automatically, jostling a man who was standing in the corner.
He was in Moira’s room. “I love you,” he said to her, reaching for her hand. She turned from him. His brother Mike was standing at the door. Moira walked toward him and left Jim sitting at the desk.
As he hurtled along the road, Jim took manual control of the car. He accelerated until the surrounding scenery was a blur then quickly turned off the road. He felt the car plunge into nothingness. He reached out to death and began to fall into a deep sleep.
He was walking across the campus, alone, as the news-fax man approached. “How about an interview? I’ll make it worth your while.” The reporter’s facial features were a blur. “What’s it like to be a clone? Do you feel funny with four people around just like you? Can your friends tell you apart?” Jim grabbed the recorder and smashed it over the man’s head.
“Jim,” Moira’s voice said. He looked around, startled. “Jim.” He
was standing just outside the elevator.
Moira came toward him, her aqua sari fluttering at her ankles. He took her arm. They walked through the lobby and outside. The spring rain had stopped and the air smelled fresh.
“I must have said Jim five times,” Moira murmured. “You looked like you were ready to kill somebody.” They continued walking through the courtyard, surrounded on all sides by high silvery towers housing offices, research facilities and broadcasting studios. Few of the thousands of students were around. Most were either doing research or lab work or were in their rooms watching lectures. Some were probably in the library, preferring its quiet to the noise of the dormitories.
“Just thinking about things,” Jim said. “I guess…” He paused, feeling uneasy, and looked around the courtyard. All he saw were small groups of students and faculty going about their business. “I guess,” he went on, “I should go home and dial my Sci and Sym lectures. I’m about three lectures behind.”
Moira shrugged. “It’s an easy course,” she said. Jim knew she did not think much of the Science and Symbolism course. She had chosen to study literature that either did not deal with science at all or only dealt with it peripherally. She did not care for science and had never progressed beyond the basic courses recommended to all students. Jim glanced at Moira and thought he saw contempt in her eyes. Contempt for him? Contempt for Paul Swenson? Contempt for all the biologists who had produced Jim?
“You can dial the lectures in my room,” Moira said, “if you want.”
Jim did not want to dial them at all. Apathy settled around him, and he saw himself continue through the courtyard, past the buildings, through the wooded areas, past the dormitories…
Moira saw the group before he did. She pulled at his arm and gestured at a group of five teenagers being shown around the courtyard by a tall black man. She waved at the man.
“Hey, Walt!” she shouted. The tall man waved back. “That’s Walt Merton, he’s been seeing my roommate Ilyasah. He’s in chemistry.” The corners of her mouth turned down. “Look at those kids, they look so serious and awestruck.”
They began to walk toward the group. “Hi, Walt,” Moira said as they approached. “This is Jim Swenson, I don’t think you’ve met.” She grinned at the teenagers.
“Hi, Jim,” Walt said.
“Jim Swenson the clone?” a small blond girl asked. Jim forced himself to look at her. He felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead and under his beard. “Are you the one in astrophysics? That’s what I want to study.”
A wiry dark boy hooted, “How do the profs know which one of you’s taking a test?” Jim felt his body tense. He was immobilized. “My grandmother says you’ve got mental telepathy,” the boy continued, “because you’ve got one mind.”
Jim stared at the boy. Dr. Valois had refuted that story long ago, yet people still believed it. He wanted to tell the kids they were being rude. He thought of himself writing a book of etiquette for social relations with clones. “Never reveal to the clone that you do not know who he is.” “Tell him how unlike the other clones he is.” “Never seat clones on the same side of the dinner table.” He restrained the hysterical laugh that almost escaped from his lips.
“I don’t have telepathy,” he managed to say.
“Of course he doesn’t,” the small blond girl said to the boy.
Jim turned from the group, aware that both Walt and Moira were looking at him strangely. Then he noticed a chubby man lurking around an oak tree near the center of the courtyard. The tiny camera in the man’s hand was almost invisible, hidden by his fingers. Jim thought of newsfax pictures, he and Moira in the courtyard, captions: “A Clone in Love,” and, in smaller letters, “Can She Tell Them Apart?” He stopped in front of the man, grabbed the camera from his hand and smashed it on the tree trunk.
Moira was behind him. “Jim, what the hell are you doing?” She grabbed his arm. The man’s brown eyes reflected shock.
“I’ll do that,” Jim said, “every time I see one of you idiots with a camera.” Moira was tugging at him.
The man sighed. “Young lady, tell this man it is not against the law to photograph buildings.” He reached into his pocket and handed Jim a card. “I would appreciate it if you sent me twenty dollars for the camera, and consider yourself fortunate that I’m not billing you for my wasted time.”
The man walked away. Jim looked at the card. Herman Steinfeld, Professor of Architecture.
“What’s wrong with you?” Moira asked.
He stood there, holding the card, staring past her at the tree.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Moira said. Her image disappeared from the screen in front of Jim.
He got up and wandered into the kitchen. Kira sat at the table eating a sandwich. The room smelled like a delicatessen. She looked up.
Moira had not stayed on the phone very long. He remembered the impatience in her voice.
“Want a sandwich?” Kira asked, gesturing at the plate of cold cuts in front of her. He could tell that she was worried and trying to hide it. Kira, when upset, would eat almost compulsively.
“No.” He sat down across the table from her.
“Was that Moira? I’d love to talk with her.” Kira looked down at the table. “I wish I looked like Moira Buono. Too bad Paul didn’t have dark hair. Too bad he wasn’t smaller, too, I feel like an elephant next to people her size.”
Please shut up, Kira, and let me sit here in peace. Stop pretending you’re worried and trying to cheer me up.
“You should ask her over sometime,” Kira said.
Jim shuddered. He thought of Moira meeting his brothers. Would she be bored by their scientific studies? Would she compare him to them? Perhaps they would all fall in love with her. It was logical to assume that they might. How much real difference was there between them? “It just might be,” he said, trying to restrain his anger, “that I want Moira to see me as an individual, not part of an identical herd.”
Kira changed the subject. “I saw Dr. Erman today,” she said quickly. “He said you hadn’t dialed his poetry discussion in a while, and he wondered…”
“Can’t you shut up?” Jim said. “You don’t have to mind my business for me.” His voice was loud. He looked around, hoping that the others had not heard him.
“I was just…” Kira stopped. She put down her sandwich. The concern he saw on her face needed no words. She brushed some of her thick brown hair from her forehead.
Jim got up from the table suddenly and hurried out into the living room. Al was seated in one of the booths at the other side of the room, earphones over his head, eyes fixed on the screen. Al was retreating too, into his work rather than from it. As a student of astrophysics, he was in competition with the memory of Paul’s work, suffering doubts about his ability to do as well. He had applied for a grant to work with the scientists on the moon. He did little else but study in the meantime, forsaking even the sports he enjoyed.
Jim turned away and began to climb the staircase to his own room. Al could not be bothered with his worries. He walked to his room and paused at the door. He could hear Ed and Mike talking in Ed’s bedroom. They could not be bothered either. Mike was hoping to leave eventually for California, wanting to do advanced work in plasma physics there. Jim also knew that Mike wanted to get as far from the rest of them as he could.
Jim entered his room and closed the door. He flung himself across his bed, trying to hide from the house and the others in it. He lay on the bed, arms hanging uselessly over the side.
He heard the sound of Ed’s violin. The music slipped under the door and crept around him, circling mournfully.
Jim thought of Ed, Al, Mike, and Kira. He saw Kira sitting in the kitchen, pretending concern. She was studying biology and ethics, the only one of them actively studying the issues and circumstances that had brought them into being. His mind recoiled at the thought. Keep at it, Kira, and maybe someday you’ll produce something even more monstrous than ourselves.
He was alone.
Jim sat in Moira’s room and stared at the wall. He could not understand what Moira and Ilyasah were saying. Their words were disconnected syllables that he heard but could not interpret.
Moira had seemed annoyed when he showed up at her room earlier that evening. Ilyasah Ahmal, a student of ancient Egypt, had been sitting in her booth taking part in a discussion. He had sat in the room quietly while Moira read and Ilyasah spoke to the faces on the screen in front of her, her words smothered by the clear soundproofed cube around her.
Jim had wanted to get out of his house. He had been making notes for a story when Dr. Aschenbach arrived. He had taken one look at the minister’s friendly face before deciding to leave quickly.
Why do you keep coming by? he had wanted to ask Jonathan Aschenbach. Do you think you can recapture an old friendship with Paul by using us? Instead, he had mumbled something about meeting Moira and had left, riding aimlessly around the campus in the car before deciding to stop at Moira’s dormitory.
Jim felt like an intruder. But he had nowhere else to go. He couldn’t talk to anyone he knew; others could not really understand him. He could not say anything to his brothers and sister. They understood only too well, and had retreated. Jim saw them as they must appear to others— identical, a closed group, undifferentiated, and inaccessible. We’re components, interchangeable parts, he thought. Even their different pursuits were probably accidental.
He sat and heard the voices of Ilyasah and Moira, background noise that complemented his thoughts. Could Moira, the gift he loved, tell them apart? She had only met Kira. He had never introduced her to his brothers, had never dared. The faces of Ed, Mike, Al, and Kira merged in his mind, becoming the same face—that of Paul Swenson.
Cloned Lives Page 12