Counterfeit World by Daniel F. Galouye Page A

suppose, with its rock ‘n’ roll selections.
    A waitress who came to ask what we wanted and later returned with the order was the crowning anachronism that brought Jinx around to full appreciation of the place.
    “I think this is a fascinating idea!” she exclaimed over her salad of actual, green vegetables.
    “Good. Then there’s no reason why we shouldn’t repeat it.”
    “No. I don’t suppose there is.”
    Had I detected perhaps a trace of restraint? Was it that she was still wary of me?
    I took her hand. “Ever hear of pseudoparanoia?”
    Puzzlement deprived her brow of some of its smoothness.
    “I hadn’t either,” I went on, “until I spoke with Collingsworth. He explained that what I was experiencing was only the psychological effects of working with the simulator. What I’m trying to say, Jinx, is that I was off balance until a couple of days ago. But I’m squared away now.”
    Her features, though alert, were somehow rigid in abstraction—soft and gentle, beautiful, yet at the same time cold and distant.
    “I’m glad everything’s all right,” she said simply.
    Somehow it wasn’t turning out quite as I had planned.
    We were silent throughout most of the main course. Finally I decided I would put up with my hesitancy no longer.
    I leaned across the table. “Collingsworth said that whatever upset me was just temporary.”
    “I’m sure he was right.” Only her words were dull and heavy.
    I reached for her hand. But she slid it tactfully out of range.
    Discouraged, I said, “The night we took that ride—remember? You asked me what I wanted to find in life.”
    She nodded, but only perfunctorily.
    “This isn’t coming off as well as I thought it would,” I complained.
    She sat there staring at me, indecision playing across her obviously troubled face.
    Bewildered, I asked, “Didn’t you say something about having never stopped thinking of me?”
    “Oh, Doug. Let’s not talk about it. Not now.”
    “ Why not now?”
    She didn’t answer.
    At first I had thought she was running from something vast and mysterious. Then I had imagined it was only I whom she feared. Now I didn’t know what to think.
    She indicated her supposedly shiny nose, excused herself and headed across the floor, elegant in the rhythm of her motions and attracting admiring glances all the way.
    Then my hands contracted into fists and I slumped forward. I sat there through long minutes, trembling, trying to pull back from the brink of a yawning blackness. The room wavered and faded and a thousand rivers of fire coursed through my head.
    “Doug! Are you all right?”
    Jinx’s solicitous voice, the touch of her hand on my shoulder brought me swimming back.
    “It’s nothing,” I lied. “Just a headache.”
    But as I went for her wrap, I wondered about Collingsworth’s assurance that the lapses had been only psychosomatic. Perhaps there was a lingering effect here that might be expected to continue for a while, even after the rest of the trouble had cleared.
    My confusion only contributed to the silence between us as I cushioned Jinx home. At her door, I caught her arms and pulled her close. But she only turned her face aside. It was as though she had devoted the entire evening to but one purpose—discouraging me.
    I headed back for the door.
    Then, crowning her inconsistency, she called out in a small, uncertain voice, “I will see you again, won’t I, Doug?”
    When I finally turned around, however, she had already gone in.
    I couldn’t let the evening end on this completely irrational note. There was only one thing to do—go back and insist on her explaining why she had been so distant.
    Striding ahead, I reached for the buzzer. Before I could touch it, though, the door swung open. I had forgotten that Dr. Fuller had keyed it to my capacitance.
    I stood on the threshold. “Jinx.”
    There was no answer.
    I went through the living room and dining room and into the study. “Jinx?”
    I checked the other