Except that you shouldn't have inflated it. May I?"
"Please," I said quite softly. She leaned forward in her chair, poked me lightly in the chest with straightened fingers, and let out a faint cry.
"What do you have there?"
"Other than myself, nothing," I answered with a crooked smile.
She clutched the fingers of her right hand with her left and stood up. Suddenly my calm, invested with a malicious satisfaction, became like ice.
"Why don't you sit down?"
"But… I'm terribly sorry, I…"
"Forget it. Have you been with Adapt long?"
"It's my second year."
"Aha—and your first patient?" I pointed a finger at myself. She blushed a little.
"May I ask you something?"
Her eyelids fluttered. Did she think that I would ask her out?
"Certainly."
"How do they work it so that the sky is visible at every level of the city?"
She perked up.
"Very simple. Television—that is what they called it, long ago. On the ceilings are screens. They transmit what is above the Earth—the sky, the clouds…"
"But surely the levels are not that high," I said. "Forty-story buildings stand there…"
"It is an illusion," she said, smiling. "The buildings are only partly real; their continuation is an image. Do you understand?"
"I understand how it's done, but not the reason."
"So that the people living on each level do not feel deprived. Not in any way."
"Aha," I said. "Yes, that's clever. One more thing. I'll be shopping for books. Could you suggest a few works in your field? An overview…?"
"You want to study psychology?" She was surprised.
"No, but I'd like to know what has been accomplished in all this time."
"I'd recommend Mayssen," she said.
"What is that?"
"A school textbook."
"I would prefer something larger. Abstracts, monographs—it's always better to go to the source."
"That might be too … difficult."
I smiled politely.
"Perhaps not. What would the difficulty be?"
"Psychology has become very mathematical…"
"So have I. At least, up to the point where I left off, a hundred or so years ago. Do I need to know more?"
"But you are not a mathematician."
"Not by profession, but I studied the subject. On the Prometheus . There was a lot of spare time, you know."
Surprised, disconcerted, she said no more. She gave me a piece of paper with a list of titles. When she had gone, I returned to the desk and sat down heavily. Even she, an employee of Adapt… Mathematics? How was it possible? A wild man. I hate them, I thought. I hate them. I hate them. Whom did I hate? I did not know. Everyone. Yes, everyone. I had been tricked. They sent me out, not knowing themselves what they were doing. I should not have returned, like Venturi, Arder, Thomas, but I did return, to frighten them, to walk about like a guilty conscience that no one wants. I am useless, I thought. If only I could cry. Arder knew how. He said you should not be ashamed of tears. Maybe I had lied to the doctor. I had never told anyone about that, but I was not sure whether I would have done it for anyone else. Perhaps I would have. For Olaf, later. But I was not completely sure of that. Arder! They destroyed us and we believed in them, feeling the entire time that Earth was by us, present, had faith in us, was mindful of us. No one spoke of it. Why speak of what is obvious?
I got up. I couldn't sit still. I walked from corner to corner.
Enough. I opened the bathroom door, but there was no water, of course, to splash on my face. Stupid. Hysterics.
I went back to the room and started to pack.
THREE
spent the afternoon in a bookstore. There were no books in it. None had been printed for nearly half a century. And how I had looked forward to them, after the microfilms that made up the library of the Prometheus ! No such luck. No longer was it possible to browse among shelves, to weigh volumes in the hand, to feel their heft, the promise of ponderous reading. The bookstore resembled, instead, an electronic laboratory. The books were crystals with recorded
"Please," I said quite softly. She leaned forward in her chair, poked me lightly in the chest with straightened fingers, and let out a faint cry.
"What do you have there?"
"Other than myself, nothing," I answered with a crooked smile.
She clutched the fingers of her right hand with her left and stood up. Suddenly my calm, invested with a malicious satisfaction, became like ice.
"Why don't you sit down?"
"But… I'm terribly sorry, I…"
"Forget it. Have you been with Adapt long?"
"It's my second year."
"Aha—and your first patient?" I pointed a finger at myself. She blushed a little.
"May I ask you something?"
Her eyelids fluttered. Did she think that I would ask her out?
"Certainly."
"How do they work it so that the sky is visible at every level of the city?"
She perked up.
"Very simple. Television—that is what they called it, long ago. On the ceilings are screens. They transmit what is above the Earth—the sky, the clouds…"
"But surely the levels are not that high," I said. "Forty-story buildings stand there…"
"It is an illusion," she said, smiling. "The buildings are only partly real; their continuation is an image. Do you understand?"
"I understand how it's done, but not the reason."
"So that the people living on each level do not feel deprived. Not in any way."
"Aha," I said. "Yes, that's clever. One more thing. I'll be shopping for books. Could you suggest a few works in your field? An overview…?"
"You want to study psychology?" She was surprised.
"No, but I'd like to know what has been accomplished in all this time."
"I'd recommend Mayssen," she said.
"What is that?"
"A school textbook."
"I would prefer something larger. Abstracts, monographs—it's always better to go to the source."
"That might be too … difficult."
I smiled politely.
"Perhaps not. What would the difficulty be?"
"Psychology has become very mathematical…"
"So have I. At least, up to the point where I left off, a hundred or so years ago. Do I need to know more?"
"But you are not a mathematician."
"Not by profession, but I studied the subject. On the Prometheus . There was a lot of spare time, you know."
Surprised, disconcerted, she said no more. She gave me a piece of paper with a list of titles. When she had gone, I returned to the desk and sat down heavily. Even she, an employee of Adapt… Mathematics? How was it possible? A wild man. I hate them, I thought. I hate them. I hate them. Whom did I hate? I did not know. Everyone. Yes, everyone. I had been tricked. They sent me out, not knowing themselves what they were doing. I should not have returned, like Venturi, Arder, Thomas, but I did return, to frighten them, to walk about like a guilty conscience that no one wants. I am useless, I thought. If only I could cry. Arder knew how. He said you should not be ashamed of tears. Maybe I had lied to the doctor. I had never told anyone about that, but I was not sure whether I would have done it for anyone else. Perhaps I would have. For Olaf, later. But I was not completely sure of that. Arder! They destroyed us and we believed in them, feeling the entire time that Earth was by us, present, had faith in us, was mindful of us. No one spoke of it. Why speak of what is obvious?
I got up. I couldn't sit still. I walked from corner to corner.
Enough. I opened the bathroom door, but there was no water, of course, to splash on my face. Stupid. Hysterics.
I went back to the room and started to pack.
THREE
spent the afternoon in a bookstore. There were no books in it. None had been printed for nearly half a century. And how I had looked forward to them, after the microfilms that made up the library of the Prometheus ! No such luck. No longer was it possible to browse among shelves, to weigh volumes in the hand, to feel their heft, the promise of ponderous reading. The bookstore resembled, instead, an electronic laboratory. The books were crystals with recorded
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