"We Can Build You" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Philip K.)

16

In a low voice in my ear the Lincoln simulacrum said, "Louis, you must climb back up on your stool."

Nodding, I clumsily got back up. Pris--she glowed. Stunning in one of the new Total Glimpse dresses... her hair had been cut much shorter and brushed back and she wore a peculiar eyeshadow which made her eyes seem huge and black. Barrows, with his pool-ball shaved head and jovial, jerky manner, appeared the same as always; business-like and brisk, grinning, he accepted the menu and began ordering.

"She is astonishingly lovely," the simulacrum said to me. "Yes," I said. Around us the men seated at the bar--and the women too--had paused to give her the once-over. I couldn't blame them.

"You must take action," the simulacrum said to me. "You cannot leave now, I fear, and you cannot stay as you are. I will go over to their table and tell them that you have an appointment with Mrs. Devorac later in the evening, and that is all I can do for you; the rest, Louis, is on your shoulders." It stepped long-legged from the stool and made its way from the bar before I could stop it.

It reached Barrows' table and bent down, resting its hand on Barrows' shoulder, and spoke to him.

At once Barrows twisted to face me. Pris also turned; her dark cold eyes glittered.

The Lincoln returned to the bar. "Go over to them, Louis." Automatically I got down and threaded my way among the tables, over to Barrows and Pris. They stared. Probably they believed I had my .38 with me, but I did not; it was back at the motel. I said, "Sam, you're finished. I've got all the dope ready for Silvia." I examined my wristwatch. "Too bad for you, but it's too late for you now; you had your chance and you muffed it."

"Sit down, Rosen."

I seated myself at their table.

The waitress brought martinis for Barrows and Pris.

"We've built our first simulacrum," Barrows said.

"Oh? Who's it of?"

"George Washington, the Father of Our Country."

I said, "It's a shame to see your empire crumbling in ruins."

"I don't get what you mean but I'm glad I ran into you," Barrows said. "It's an opportunity to thrash out a few misunderstandings." To Pris he said, "I'm sorry to discuss business, dear, but it's good luck to run across Louis here; do you mind?"

"Yes I mind. If he doesn't leave, you and I are finished." Barrows said, "You get so violent, dear. This is a minor point but an interesting one that I'd like to settle with Rosen here. If you're so dissatisfied I can send you home in a cab."

In her flat, remote tone Pris said, "I'm not going to be sent off. If you try to get rid of me you'll find yourself in the bucket so fast it'll make your head spin."

We both regarded her. Beyond the beautiful dress, hairdo and make-up it was the same old Pris.

"I think I will send you home," Barrows said.

"No," she said.

Barrows beckoned to the waitress. "Will you have a cab--"

"You screwed me before witnesses," Pris said.

Blanching, Barrows waved the waitress away. "Now look." His hands were trembling. "Do you want to sit and have the vichyssoise and be quiet? Can you be quiet?"

"I'll say what I want, when I want."

"What witnesses?" Barrows managed to smile. "Dave Blunk? Colleen Nild?" His smile strengthened. "Go on, dear."

"You're a dirty aging middle-aged man who likes to peep up girls' skirts," Pris said. "You ought to be behind bars." Her voice, although not loud, was so distinct that several people at nearby tables turned their heads. "You put it in me once too often," Pris said. "And I can tell you this: it's a wonder you can get it up at all. It's so little and flaccid. You're just too old and flaccid, you old fairy."

Barrows winced, grinned twistedly. "Anything else?"

"No," Pris said. "You have all those people bought so they won't be witnesses against you."

"Anything else?"

She shook her head, panting.

Turning to me Barrows said, "Now. Go ahead." He seemed still to have his poise. It was amazing; he could endure anything.

I said, "Shall I contact Mrs. Devorac or not? It's up to you."

Glancing at his wristwatch Barrows said, "I'd like to consult with my legal people. Would it offend you if I telephoned Dave Blunk to come over here?"

"All right," I said, knowing that Blunk would advise him to give in.

Excusing himself, Barrows went off to phone. While he was gone Pris and I sat facing each other without speaking. At last he returned and Pris met him with a forlorn, suspicious expression. "What vicious thing are you up to, Sam?" she said.

Sam Barrows did not answer. He leaned back comfortably.

"Louis, he's done something," Pris said with a wild glance all around. "Can't you tell? Don't you know him well enough to see? Oh, Louis!"

"Don't worry," I said, but now I felt uneasy, and at the bar I noticed that the Lincoln was stirring about restlessly and frowning. Had I made a mistake? Too late now; I had agreed.

"Will you step over here?" I called to the simulacrum. It rose at once and came over, stooping to hear. "Mr. Barrows is waiting to consult with his attorney."

Seating itself the simulacrum pondered. "I suppose there is no harm in that."

We all waited. Half an hour later Dave Blunk appeared, threading his way to us. With him was Colleen Nild, dressed up, and after her a third person, a young man with crewcut and bow-tie, an alert, eager expression on his face.

Who is this man? I wondered. _What is going on?_ And my uneasiness grew.

"Sorry we're late," Blunk said as he seated Mrs. Nild. Both he and the bow-tied young man seated themselves. No one introduced anyone.

This must be some employee of Barrows, I said to myself. Could this be the punk who would fulfill the formality of a legal marriage with Pris?

Seeing me staring at the man, Barrows spoke up. "This is Johnny Booth. Johnny, I want you to meet Louis Rosen."

The young man nodded hastily. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rosen." He ducked his head to the others in turn. "Hi. Hi there. How are you?"

"Wait a minute." I felt cold all over. "This is John Booth? John Wilkes Booth?"

"You hit the nail on the head," Barrows said.

"But he doesn't look anything like John Wilkes Booth." It was a simulacrum and a terrible one at that. I had just been browsing in the reference books; John Wilkes Booth had been a theatrical, dramatic-looking individual--this was just another ordinary flunky type, a _nebbish_, the kind you see in the downtown business sections of every major city in the United States. "Don't put me on," I said. "This is your first effort? I've got news for you; better go back and try again."

But all the time I was talking I was staring at the simulacrum in terror, for despite its foolish appearance it worked; it was a success in the technical sense, and what a dreadful omen that was for us, for every one of us; the John Wilkes Booth simulacrum! I couldn't help glancing sideways at the Lincoln to see its reaction. Did it know what this meant?

The Lincoln had said nothing. But the lines of its face had deepened, the twilight of melancholy which always to some degree hung over it. It seemed to know what was in store for it, what this new simulacrum portended.

I couldn't believe that Pris could design such a thing. And then I realized that of course she hadn't; that was why it had, really, no face. Only Bundy had been involved. Through him they had developed the inner workings and then they had crammed it into this mass-man container which sat here at the table smiling and nodding, a typical Ja-Sager, a yes man. They hadn't even _attempted_ to re-create the authentic Booth appearance, perhaps hadn't even been interested; it was a rush job, done for a specific purpose.

"We'll continue our discussion," Barrows said.

Dave Blunk nodded, and John Wilkes Booth nodded. Mrs. Nild examined a menu. Pris was staring at the new simulacrum as if turned to stone. So I was right; it was a surprise to her. While she had been out being wined and dined, dressed up in new clothes, slept with and prettified, Bob Bundy had been off in some workshop of the Barrows organization, hammering away on this contraption.

"All right," I said. "Let's continue."

"Johnny," Barrows said to his simulacrum, "by the way, this tall man with the beard, this is Abe Lincoln. I was telling you about him, remember?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Barrows," the Booth thing said instantly, with a wide-awake nod. "I remember distinctly."

I said, "Barrows, it's a phony business you have here; this is just an assassin with the name 'Booth,' he doesn't look or talk right and you know it. This is phony, lousy and phony from the bottom up, it makes me sick. I feel shame for you."

Barrows shrugged.

To the Booth thing I said, "Say something out of Shakespeare."

It grinned back in its busy, silly way.

"Say something in Latin, then," I said to it.

It went on grinning.

"How many hours did it take to whip this nothing up?" I said to Barrows. "Half a morning? Where's any painstaking fidelity to detail? Where's craftsmanship gone? All that's left is schlock, the killer-instinct planted in this contraption-- right?"

Barrows said, "I think you will want to withdraw your threat to contact Mrs. Devorac, in view of Johnny Booth, here."

"How's he going to do it?" I said. "With a poison ring? With bacteriological warfare?"

Dave Blunk laughed. Mrs. Nild smiled. The Booth thing went right along with the others, grinning emptily, taking its cue from its boss. Mr. Barrows had them all on strings and he was jerking away with all his might.

Staring at the Booth simulacrum Pris had become almost unrecognizable. She had become gaunt; her neck was stretched out like a fowl's and her eyes were glazed and full of splintered light.

"Listen," she said. She pointed at the Lincoln. "I built that."

Barrows eyed her.

"It's mine," Pris said. To the Lincoln she said, "Did you know that? That my father and I built you?"

"Pris," I said, "for god's sake--"

"Be quiet," she said to me.

"Stay out of this," I said to her. "This is between I and Mr. Barrows." I was shaking. "Maybe you mean well and I realize you had nothing to do with building this Booth thing. And you--"

"For christ's sake," Pris said to me, "shut up." She faced Barrows. "You had Bob Bundy build that thing to destroy the Lincoln and you very carefully kept me from knowing. You cruti. I'll never forgive you for this."

Barrows said, "What's eating you, Pris? Don't tell me you're having an affair with the Lincoln simulacrum." He frowned at her.

"I won't see my work killed," Pris said.

Barrows said, "Maybe you will."

In a heavy voice the Lincoln said, "Miss Pris, I do think Mr. Rosen is correct. You should allow him and Mr. Barrows to discover the solution to their problem."

"I can solve this," Pris said. Bending down, she fumbled with something under the table. I could not imagine what she was up to, nor could Barrows; all of us, in fact, sat rigid. Pris emerged, holding one of her high heeled shoes, brandishing it with the metal heel out.

"Goddam you," she said to Barrows.

Barrows started from his chair. "No," he said, holding up his hand.

The shoe smashed down on the head of the Booth simulacrum. Its heel burst into the thing's head, right behind the ear. "There," Pris said to Barrows, her eyes shining and wet, her mouth a thin contorted frantic line.

"Glap," the Booth simulacrum said. Its hands beat jerkily in the air; its feet drummed on the floor. Then it ceased moving. An inner wind convulsed it; its limbs floundered and twitched. It became inert.

I said, "Don't hit it again, Pris." I did not feel able to stand any more. Barrows was saying almost the same thing, muttering at Pris in a dazed monotone.

"Why should I hit it again?" Pris said matter-of-factly; she withdrew the heel of her shoe from its head, bent down, put her shoe back on again. People at the tables around us stared in amazement.

Barrows got out a white linen handkerchief and mopped his forehead. He started to speak, changed his mind, remained silent.

Gradually the Booth simulacrum began to slide from its chair. I stood up and tried to prop it so that it would remain where it was. Dave Blunk rose, too: together we managed to get it propped upright so that it would not fall. Pris sipped her drink expressionlessly.

To the people at the nearby tables Blunk said, "It's a doll, a life-size doll, for display. Mechanical." For their benefit he showed them the now-visible metal and plastic inner part of the simulacrum's skull. Within the puncture I could see something shining, the damaged ruling monad, I suppose. I wondered if Bob Bundy could repair it. I wondered if I cared whether it could be repaired or not.

Putting out his cigarette Barrows drank his drink, then in a hoarse voice said to Pris, "You've put yourself on bad terms with me, by doing that."

"Then goodbye," Pris said. "Goodbye, Sam K. Barrows, you dirty ugly fairy." She rose to her feet, deliberately knocked over her chair; she walked away from the table, leaving us, going among and past the other tables of people, at last to the checkstand. She got her coat from the girl, there.

Neither Barrows nor I moved.

"She went out the door," Dave Blunk said presently. "I can see the door better than any of you; she's gone."

"What am I going to do with this?" Barrows said to Blunk regarding the dead Booth simulacrum. "We'll have to get it out of here."

"We can get it out between the two of us," Blunk said.

"I'll give you a hand," I said.

Barrows said, "We'll never see her again. Or she might be standing outside on the sidewalk, waiting." To me he said, "Can you tell? I can't; I don't understand her."

I hurried up the aisle alongside the bar, past the check-stand; I pushed open the street door. There stood the uniformed doorman. He nodded courteously at me.

There was no sign of Pris.

"What happened to the girl who just came out?" I said.

The doorman gestured. "I don't know, sir." He indicated the many cabs, the traffic, the clusters of people like bees near the doorway of the club. "Sorry, couldn't tell."

I looked up and down the sidewalk; I even ran a little in each direction, straining to catch a glimpse of her.

Nothing.

At last I returned to the club and to the table where Barrows and the others sat with the dead, damaged Booth simulacrum. It had slid down in its seat, now, and was leaning to one side, its head lolling, its mouth open; I propped it up again, with Dave Blunk's help.

"You've lost everything," I said to Barrows.

"I've lost nothing."

"Sam's right," Dave Blunk said. "What has he lost? Bob Bundy can make another simulacrum if necessary."

"You've lost Pris," I said. "That's everything."

"Oh hell, who knows about Pris? I don't think even she knows."

"Guess so," I said. My tongue felt thick; it clung to the sides of my mouth. I waggled my jaw, feeling no pain, nothing at all. "I've lost her, too."

"Evidently," Barrows said. "But you're better off; could you bear to undergo something of this sort every day?"

As we sat there the great Earl Grant appeared once more. The piano was playing and everyone had shut up, and we did so, too.

_I've got grasshoppers in my_

_pillow, baby_.

_I've got crickets all in_

_my meal_.

Was he singing to me? Had he seen me sitting there, seen the look on my face, known how I felt? It was an old song and sad. Maybe he saw me; maybe not. I couldn't tell, but it seemed so.

Pris is wild, I thought. Not a part of us. Outside somewhere. Pris is pristine and in an awful way: all that goes on among and between people, all that we have here, fails to touch her. When one looks at her one sees back into the farthest past; one sees us as we started out, a million, two million years ago .

The song which Earl Grant was singing; that was one of the ways of taming, of making us over, modifying us again and again in countless slow ways. The Creator was still at work, still molding what in most of us remained soft. Not so with Pris; there was no more molding and shaping with her, not even by Him.

I have seen into the _other_, I said to myself, when I saw Pris. And where am I left, now? Waiting only for death, as the Booth simulacrum when she took off her shoe. The Booth simulacrum had finally gotten it in exchange for its deed of over a century ago. Before his death, Lincoln had dreamed of assassination, seen in his sleep a black-draped coffin and weeping processions. Had this simulacrum received any intimation, last night? Had it dreamed in its sleep in some mechanical, mystical way?

We would all get it. Chug-chug. The black crepe draped on the train passing in the midst of the grain fields. People out to witness, removing their caps. Chug-chug-chug.

The black train with the coffin guarded by soldiers in blue who carried guns and who never moved in all that time, from start to end of the long, long trip.

"Mr. Rosen." Someone beside me speaking. A woman.

Startled, I glanced up. Mrs. Nild was addressing me.

"Would you help us? Mr. Barrows has gone to get the car; we want to put the Booth simulacrum into the car."

"Oh," I said, nodding. "Sure."

As I got to my feet I looked to the Lincoln to see if it was going to pitch in. But strange to say the Lincoln sat with its head bowed in deepest melancholy, paying no attention to us or to what we were doing. Was it listening to Earl Grant? Was it overcome by his blues song? I did not think so. It was hunched over, actually bent out of shape, as if its bones were fusing into one single bone. And it was absolutely silent; it did not even seem to be breathing.

A kind of prayer, I thought as I watched it. And yet no prayer at all. The stoppage of prayer, perhaps; its interruption. Blunk and I turned to the Booth; we began lifting it to its feet. It was very heavy.

"The car's a Mercedes-Benz," Blunk gasped as we started up the aisle. "White with red leather interior."

"I'll hold the door open," Mrs. Nild said, following after us.

We got the Booth up the narrow aisle to the entrance of the club. The doorman regarded us with curiosity but neither he nor anyone else made a move to interfere or help or inquire as to what was taking place. The doorman, however, did hold the door aside for us and we were grateful because that left Mrs. Nild free to go out into the street to hail Sam Barrows' car.

"Here it comes," Blunk said, jerking his head.

Mrs. Nild opened the car door wide for us, and between Blunk and myself we managed to get the simulacrum into the back seat.

"You better come along with us," Mrs. Nild said to me as I started away from the car.

"Good idea," Blunk said. "We'll have a drink, okay, Rosen? We'll take the Booth to the shop and then go over to Collie's apartment; the liquor's there."

"No," I said.

"Come on," Barrows said from behind the wheel. "You fellows get in so we can go; that includes you, Rosen, and naturally your simulacrum. Go back and get it."

"No, no thanks," I said. "You guys go on."

Blunk and Mrs. Nild closed the car door after them and the car drove off and disappeared into the heavy evening traffic.

Hands in my pockets I returned to the club, making my way down the aisle to the table where the Lincoln still sat, its head down, its arms wrapped about itself, in utter stillness.

What could I say to it? How could I cheer it up?

"You shouldn't let an incident like that get you down," I said to it. "You should try to rise above it."

The Lincoln did not respond.

"Many a mickle makes a muckle," I said.

The simulacrum raised its head. It stared at me hopelessly. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," I said. "I just don't know."

We both sat in silence, then.

"Listen," I said, "I'm going to take you back to Boise and take you to see Doctor Horstowski. It won't do you any harm and he may be able to do something about these depressions. Is it okay with you?"

Now the Lincoln seemed calmer; it had brought out a large red handkerchief and was blowing its nose. "Thank you for your concern," it said from behind the handkerchief.

"A drink," I said. "Or a cup of coffee or something to eat."

The simulacrum shook its head no.

"When did you first notice the onset of these depressions?" I asked. "I mean, in your youth. Would you like to talk about them? Tell me what comes to your mind, what free associations you have. Please. I have a feeling it'll make you feel better."

The Lincoln cleared its throat and said, "Will Mr. Barrows and his party be returning?"

"I doubt it. They invited us to come along; they're going over to Mrs. Nild's apartment."

The Lincoln gave me a long, slow, queer look. "Why are they going there and not to Mr. Barrows' house?"

"The liquor's there. That's what Dave Blunk said, anyhow."

The Lincoln cleared its throat again, drank a little water from the glass before it on the table. The strange look remained on its face, as if there was something it did not understand, as if it was puzzled but at the same time enlightened.

"What is it?" I said.

There was a pause and then the Lincoln said suddenly, "Louis, _go over to Mrs. Nild's apartment_. Waste no time."

"Why?"

"She must be there."

I felt my scalp tingle.

"I think," the simulacrum said, "she has been living there with Mrs. Nild. I will go back to the motel, now. Don't worry about me--if necessary I am capable of returning to Boise on my own, tomorrow. Go at once, Louis, before their party arrives there."

I scrambled to my feet. "I don't--"

"You can obtain the address from the telephone book."

"Yeah," I said, "that's so. Thanks for the advice, I really appreciate it. I have a feeling you've got a good idea, there. So I'll see you, then. So long. And if--"

"Go," it said.

I went.

At an all-night drugstore I consulted the phone book. I found Colleen Nild's address and then went outside onto the sidewalk and flagged down a cab. At last I was on my way.

Her building was a great dark brick apartment house. Only a few windows were lit up, here and there. I found her number and pressed the button next to it. After a long time the small speaker made a static noise and a muffled female voice asked who I was.

"Louis Rosen." Was it Pris? "Can I come up?" I asked.

The heavy glass and black wrought-iron door buzzed; I leaped to catch it and pushed it open. In a moment I had crossed the deserted lobby and was climbing the stairs to the third floor. It was a long climb and when I reached her door I was panting and tired.

The door was open. I knocked, hesitated, and then went on inside the apartment.

In the living room on a couch sat Mrs. Nild with a drink in her hand, and across from her sat Sam Barrows. Both of them glanced up at me.

"Hi, Rosen." Barrows inclined his head toward a coffee table on which stood a bottle of vodka, lemons, mixer, lime juice and ice cubes and glasses. "Go ahead, help yourself."

Not knowing what else to do I went over and busied myself.

While I was doing that Barrows said, "I have news for you. Someone very dear to you is in there." He pointed with his glass. "Go look in the bedroom." Both he and Mrs. Nild smiled.

I set down my drink and hurried in the direction of the door.

"How did you happen to change your mind and come here?" Barrows asked me, swirling his drink.

I said, "The Lincoln thought Pris would be here."

"Well, Rosen, I hate to say it, but in my opinion it did you a rotten favor. You're really bats to let yourself get hooked by that girl."

"I don't agree."

"Hell, that's because you're sick, all three of you, Pris and the Lincoln and you. I tell you, Rosen, Johnny Booth was worth a million of the Lincolns. I think what we'll do is patch it up and use it for our Lunar development... after all, Booth is a good old familiar American name; no reason why the family next door can't be named Booth. You know, Rosen, you must come to Luna someday and see what we've done. You have no conception of it, none at all. No offense, but it's impossible to understand from here; you have to go there."

"That's so, Mr. Rosen," Mrs. Nild said.

I said, "A successful man doesn't have to stoop to bamboozlement."

"Bamboozlement!" Barrows exclaimed. "Hell, it was an attempt to nudge people into doing what they're going to be doing someday anyhow. Oh hell, I don't want to argue. This has been quite a day; I'm tired. I feel no animosity toward anyone." He grinned at me. "If your little firm had linked up with us--you must have had an intuition of what it would have meant; you picked me out, I didn't pick you out. But it's water over the dam for you, now. Not for me; we'll go on and do it, possibly using the Booth--but anyhow in some manner, by some means."

Mrs. Nild said, "Everyone knows that, Sam." She patted him.

"Thanks, Collie," Barrows said. "I just hate to see the guy this way, no goals, no vision, no ambitions. It's heartbreaking. It is."

I said nothing; I stood at the bedroom door, waiting for them to finish talking to me.

To me Mrs. Nild said, "Go ahead on in. You might as well."

Taking hold of the knob I opened the bedroom door.

The bedroom lay in darkness. In the center I could make out the outlines of a bed. On the bed a figure lay. It had propped itself up with a pillow, and it was smoking a cigarette; or was it actually a cigarette? The bedroom smelled of cigar smoke. Hurrying to a light switch I turned on the light.

In the bed lay my father, smoking a cigar and regarding me with a frowning, thoughtful expression. He had on his bathrobe and pajamas, and beside the bed he had placed his fur-lined slippers. Next to the slippers were his suitcase and his clothes neatly piled.

"Close the door, _mein Sohn_," he said in a gentle voice.

Bewildered, I automatically complied; I shut the door behind me but not quickly enough to obliterate the howls of laughter from the living room, the roars from Sam Barrows and Mrs. Nild. What a joke they had played on me, all this time; all their talk, solemn and pretentious--knowing that Pris was not in here, was not in the apartment at all, that the Lincoln had been mistaken.

"A shame, Louis," my father said, evidently reading my expression. "Perhaps I should have stepped out and put an end to the banter, and yet I was interested in what Mr. Barrows said; it was not entirely beside the point, was it? He is a great man in some ways. Sit down." He nodded toward the chair by the bed, and I sat.

"You don't know where she is?" I said. "You can't help me either?"

"Afraid not, Louis."

It was not even worth it to get up and leave. This was as far as I could go, here to this chair, beside my father's bed, as he sat smoking.

The door burst open and a man with his face on upside down appeared, my brother Chester, bustling and full of importance. "I've got a good room for us, Dad," he said, and then, seeing me, he smiled happily. "So here you are, Louis; after all our trouble we at last manage to locate you."

"Several times," my father said, "I was tempted to correct Mr. Barrows; however, a man like him can't be reeducated, so why waste time?"

I could not bear the idea that my father was about to launch into one of his philosophical tirades; sinking down on the chair and pretending not to hear him I made his words blur into fly-like buzzing. In my stupor of disappointment I imagined how it would have been if there had been no joke played on me, if I had found Pris here in this room, lying on the bed.

Think how it would have been. I would have found her asleep, perhaps drunk; I would have lifted her up and held her in my arms, brushed her hair back from her eyes, kissed her on the ear. I could imagine her stirring to life as I woke her up from her drunken nap.

"You're not paying attention," my father said reprovingly. And I was not; I was completely away from the dismal disappointment, into my dream of Pris. "You still pursue this will-of-the-wisp." He frowned at me.

In my dream of a happier life I kissed Pris once more, and she opened her eyes. I laid her back down, lay against her and hugged her.

"How's the Lincoln?" Pris's voice, murmuring at my ear. She showed no surprise at seeing me, or at my having gathered her up and kissed her; in fact she did not show any reaction at all. But that was Pris.

"As good as could be expected." I awkwardly caressed her hair as she lay on her back gazing up at me in the darkness. I could barely discern her outline there. "No," I admitted; "actually it's in terrible shape. It's having a psychotic depression. What do you care? You did it."

"I saved it," Pris said remotely, languidly. "Bring me a cigarette, will you?"

I lit a cigarette for her and handed it to her. She lay smoking.

My father's voice came to me, "Ignore this introverted ideal, _mein Sohn_--it takes you away from reality, like Mr. Barrows told you, and this is serious! This is what Doctor Horstowski, if you'll excuse the expression, would have to call ill; do you see?"

Dimly I heard Chester's voice. "It's schizophrenia, Dad, like all those adolescent kids; millions of Americans have it without knowing it, they never get into the clinics. I read an article, it told about that."

Pris said, "You're a good person, Louis. I feel sorry for you, being in love with me. You're wasting your time, but I suppose you don't care about that. Can you explain what love is? Love like that?"

"No," I said.

"Won't you try?" she said. "Is the door locked? If it isn't, go lock it."

"Hell," I said miserably, "I can't shut them out; they're right here on top of us. We'll never be away from them, we'll never be alone, just the two of us--I know it." But I went anyhow, knowing what I knew, and shut and locked the door.

When I got back to the bed I found Pris standing up on it; she was unzipping her skirt. She drew her skirt up over her head and tossed it away from her, onto a chair; she was undressing. Now she kicked off her shoes.

"Who else can teach me, Louis, if not you?" she said. "Pull the covers back." She began taking off her underwear, but I stopped her. "Why not?"

"I'm going mad," I said. "I can't stand this. I have to go back to Boise and see Doctor Horstowski; this can't go on, not here with my family in the same room."

Pris said gently, "Tomorrow we'll fly back to Boise. But not now." She dragged the bedspread and blankets and top sheet back, got in, and, picking up her cigarette again, lay naked, not covering herself up but simply lying there. "I'm so tired, Louis. Stay with me here tonight."

"I just can't," I said.

"Then take me back to where you're staying."

"I can't do that either; the Lincoln is there."

"Louis," she said, "I just want to go to sleep; lie down and cover us up. They won't bother us. Don't be afraid of them. I'm sorry the Lincoln had one of its fits. Don't blame me for that, Louis; it has them anyhow, and I did save its life. It's my child... isn't it?"

"I guess you could put it like that," I said.

"I brought it to life, I mothered it. I'm very proud of that. When I saw that filthy Booth object... all I wanted to do was kill it on the spot. As soon as I saw it I knew what it was for. Could I be your mother, too? I wish I had brought you to life like I did it; I wish I had brought all kinds of people into life... everybody. I give life, and tonight I took it, and that's a good thing, if you can bear to do that. It takes a lot of strength to take someone's life, don't you think, Louis?"

"Yeah," I said. I seated myself beside her on the bed once more.

In the darkness she reached up and stroked my hair from my eyes. "I have that power over you, to give you life or take it away from you. Does that scare you? You know it's true."

"It doesn't scare me now," I said. "It did once, when I first realized it."

"It never scared me," Pris said. "If it did I'd lose the power; isn't that so, Louis? And I have to keep it; someone has to have it."

I did not answer. Cigar smoke billowed around me, making me sick, making me aware of my father and my brother, both of them intently watching. "Man must cherish some illusions," my father said, puffing away rapidly, "but this is ridiculous." Chester nodded to that.

"Pris," I said aloud.

"Listen to that, listen to that," my father said excitedly, "he's calling her; he's talking to her!"

"Get out of here," I said to my father and Chester. I waved my arms at them, but it did no good; neither of them stirred.

"You must understand, Louis," my father said, "I have sympathy for you. I see what Mr. Barrows doesn't see, the nobility of your search."

Through the darkness and the babble of their voices I once more made out Pris; she had gathered her clothes in a ball and sat on the edge of the bed, hugging them. "Does it matter," she said, "what anyone says or thinks about us? I wouldn't worry about it; I wouldn't let words become so real as that. Everybody on the outside is angry at us, Sam and Maury and all the rest of them. The Lincoln wouldn't have sent you here if it wasn't the right thing... don't you know that?"

"Pris," I said, "I know it'll be all right. We're going to have a happy future."

She smiled at that; in the darkness I saw the flash of her teeth. It was a smile of great suffering and sorrow, and it seemed to me--just for a moment--that what I had seen in the Lincoln simulacrum had come from her. It was here so clearly, now, the pain that Pris felt. She had put it into her creation perhaps without intending to; perhaps without even knowing that it was there.

"I love you," I said to her.

Pris rose to her feet, naked and cool and thin. She put her hands to the sides of my head and drew me down.

"_Mein Sohn_," my father was saying now to Chester, "_er schiaft in dem Freiheit der Liebesnacht_. What I mean, he's asleep, my boy is, in the freedom of a night of love, if you follow me."

"What'll they say back in Boise?" Chester said irritably. "I mean, how can we go back home with him like this?"

"Aw," my father said reprovingly, "shut up, Chester; you don't understand the depth of his psyche, what he finds. There's a two-fold side to mental psychosis, it's also a return to the original source that we've all turned away from. You better remember that, Chester, before you shoot off your mouth."

"Do you hear them?" I asked Pris.

Standing there against me, her body arched back for me, Pris laughed a soft, compassionate laugh. She gazed up at me fixedly, without expression. And yet she was fully alert. For her, change and reality, the events of her life, time itself, all had at this moment ceased.

Wonderingly, she lifted her hand and touched me on the cheek, brushed me with her fingertips.

Quite close to the door Mrs. Nild said clearly, "We'll get out of here, Mr. Rosen, and let you have the apartment."

From farther off I heard Sam Barrows mutter, "That girl in there is underdeveloped. Everything slides back out. What's she doing there in the bedroom anyhow? Has she got that skinny body--" His voice faded.

Neither Pris not I said anything. Presently we heard the front door of the apartment shut.

"That's nice of them," my father said. "Louis, you should at least have thanked them. That Mr. Barrows is a gentleman, in spite of what he says; you can tell more about a person by what he does anyhow."

"You ought to be grateful to both of them," Chester grumbled at me. Both he and my father glowered at me reprovingly, my father chewing on his cigar.

I held Pris against me. And for me, that was all.