hesitated. Was he, in effect,
letting Death — impossible, inconceivable, living Death — out into the world?
Yet with the current no longer flowing, a mesh of frail wires hardly seemed
any obstacle . . .
Weinberger
saw his hesitation.
“You
fool, I’ve got tight hold of it!” he shouted at Jim’s face from the other side
of the wires. He could easily burst through the wires by main force, but even
in this extremity he had no desire to damage any part of his invention.
“It
isn’t here. Not in this ‘here*! It’s
still in the reflection — that’s where I’ve got hold of it!”
Had
he? Had he really? Or was the pain so deeply etched into his punctured nerves
and scoured fingers that he only thought he had? Was Weinberger only imagining
that the struggle still went on in the way that an amputee feels phantom limb
sensations?
Jim
could not believe it. Weinberger continued to clutch the air — impeccably,
and agonisedly. All the reflections had gone away to wherever reflections went
when they were off duty. Yet, wherever that place might be, his reflected hands must still be mimicking, there, the
shape and stance of his actual flesh and blood hands . . .
Jim
tore the key from his neck, snapping the chain in his haste. He jabbed it at
the lock twice before he succeeded in inserting it and turning it. At last he
tugged the door open.
Weinberger
crawled out and staggered erect before Jim and Sally, his clenched hand held at
arm’s length, triumph and torment written on his face.
ELEVEN
As soon as Jim sank into the bean-bag
seat, Resnick planted both hands firmly on the corner of his desk and began to
pivot from side to side.
“This
House is not a theatre of the absurd . .
Resnick
was upset, and if he sat down he might not be able to speak coherently.
Sally
Costello had talked to Claudio Menotti, who had duly complained to the Master
about her distress. Jim’s cry — ‘He’s caught Death and he’s fighting it’ — had
planted a dagger of disquiet in Sally’s heart, which had been driven deep by
Weinberger’s frenzied emergence from the cage clutching an imaginary something at arm’s length.
Resnick’s
scene-screen showed no sunset seascape this morning, but a smouldering volcano
billowing smoke, on the verge of exploding.
‘If
he needs that to browbeat me,’
thought Jim, ‘then he can’t quite manage it by himself.’
But
Alice Huron was there too, sitting straight and tall, as well as Mary-Ann
Sczepanski who seemed nervously intoxicated by the black, fire-flecked clouds.
For the moment the etiquette of privacy and confidentiality had disappeared
somewhere behind those plumes of smoke.
“What
exactly did you mean when you said
that, eh? And now that it’s the morning after, how do you assess what
happened?”
Jim
considered.
Up
in his room, Weinberger had not slept a wink all night. How could you get to
sleep when your hand was being tortured? Jim doubted whether Weinberger could
let go now, if he wanted to. His hand, and Death, were too intermixed: hooks trapped in bones, bones trapping wings. If, indeed, he was holding anything . . .
But
Weinberger knew that he was holding
something. His hand remained bent like an arthritis victim’s, quite unable to
flex. Yet to all outward appearances it was a perfectly unblemished hand. He
did not sleep. He could not rest. He gritted his teeth, and held Death at arm’s
length.
“I
believed I saw Death,” said Jim defiantly. “It was like a bat. It was like a
huge
letting Death — impossible, inconceivable, living Death — out into the world?
Yet with the current no longer flowing, a mesh of frail wires hardly seemed
any obstacle . . .
Weinberger
saw his hesitation.
“You
fool, I’ve got tight hold of it!” he shouted at Jim’s face from the other side
of the wires. He could easily burst through the wires by main force, but even
in this extremity he had no desire to damage any part of his invention.
“It
isn’t here. Not in this ‘here*! It’s
still in the reflection — that’s where I’ve got hold of it!”
Had
he? Had he really? Or was the pain so deeply etched into his punctured nerves
and scoured fingers that he only thought he had? Was Weinberger only imagining
that the struggle still went on in the way that an amputee feels phantom limb
sensations?
Jim
could not believe it. Weinberger continued to clutch the air — impeccably,
and agonisedly. All the reflections had gone away to wherever reflections went
when they were off duty. Yet, wherever that place might be, his reflected hands must still be mimicking, there, the
shape and stance of his actual flesh and blood hands . . .
Jim
tore the key from his neck, snapping the chain in his haste. He jabbed it at
the lock twice before he succeeded in inserting it and turning it. At last he
tugged the door open.
Weinberger
crawled out and staggered erect before Jim and Sally, his clenched hand held at
arm’s length, triumph and torment written on his face.
ELEVEN
As soon as Jim sank into the bean-bag
seat, Resnick planted both hands firmly on the corner of his desk and began to
pivot from side to side.
“This
House is not a theatre of the absurd . .
Resnick
was upset, and if he sat down he might not be able to speak coherently.
Sally
Costello had talked to Claudio Menotti, who had duly complained to the Master
about her distress. Jim’s cry — ‘He’s caught Death and he’s fighting it’ — had
planted a dagger of disquiet in Sally’s heart, which had been driven deep by
Weinberger’s frenzied emergence from the cage clutching an imaginary something at arm’s length.
Resnick’s
scene-screen showed no sunset seascape this morning, but a smouldering volcano
billowing smoke, on the verge of exploding.
‘If
he needs that to browbeat me,’
thought Jim, ‘then he can’t quite manage it by himself.’
But
Alice Huron was there too, sitting straight and tall, as well as Mary-Ann
Sczepanski who seemed nervously intoxicated by the black, fire-flecked clouds.
For the moment the etiquette of privacy and confidentiality had disappeared
somewhere behind those plumes of smoke.
“What
exactly did you mean when you said
that, eh? And now that it’s the morning after, how do you assess what
happened?”
Jim
considered.
Up
in his room, Weinberger had not slept a wink all night. How could you get to
sleep when your hand was being tortured? Jim doubted whether Weinberger could
let go now, if he wanted to. His hand, and Death, were too intermixed: hooks trapped in bones, bones trapping wings. If, indeed, he was holding anything . . .
But
Weinberger knew that he was holding
something. His hand remained bent like an arthritis victim’s, quite unable to
flex. Yet to all outward appearances it was a perfectly unblemished hand. He
did not sleep. He could not rest. He gritted his teeth, and held Death at arm’s
length.
“I
believed I saw Death,” said Jim defiantly. “It was like a bat. It was like a
huge
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