carelessly,
speeding as usual. He had no more regard for traffic laws than he did for any other laws.
Karl wondered how many accidents Doro had caused or been involved in. Not that it
mattered to Doro. Had human life ever mattered to Doro beyond his interest in human
husbandry? Could a creature who had to look upon ordinary people literally as food and
shelter ever understand how strongly those people valued life? But yes, of course he
could. He understood it well enough to use it to keep his people in line. He probably even
understood it well enough to know how Karl and Mary both felt now. It just didn't make
any difference. He didn't care.
Fifteen minutes later, Doro pulled into Karl's driveway. Karl was out of the car and
heading for the house before Doro brought the car to a full stop. Karl knew that Mary was
in the midst of another experience. He had felt it begin. He had kept her under carefully
distant observation even after he had severed the link between them. Now, though, even
without a deliberately established link, he was having trouble preventing himself from
merging into her experience. Mary was trapped in the mind of a man who had to
eventually burn to death. The man was trapped inside a burning house. Mary was
experiencing his every sensation.
Karl went up the back stairs two at a time and ran through the servants' quarters
toward the front of the house. He knew Mary was in her room, lying down, knew that, for
some reason, Vivian was with her.
He walked into the room and looked first at Mary, who lay in the middle of her bed,
her body rolled into a tight, fetal knot. She made small noises in her throat like choked
screams or moans, but she did not move. Karl sat down on the bed next to her and looked
at Vivian.
"Is she going to be all right?" Vivian asked.
"I think so."
"Are you going to be all right?"
"If she is, I will be."
She got up, came to rest one hand on his shoulder. "You mean, if she comes through
all right, Doro won't kill you."
He looked at her, surprised. One of the things he liked about her was that she could
still surprise him. He left her enough mental privacy for that. He had read his previous
women more than he read her and they had quickly become boring. He had hardly read
Vivian at all until she had asked him to condition her and let her stay with him, help her
stay, in spite of Mary. He had not wanted to do it, but he had not wanted to lose her,
either. The conditioning he had imposed on her kept her from feeling jealousy or hatred
toward Mary. But it did not prevent her from seeing things clearly and drawing her own
conclusions.
"Don't worry," he told her. "Both Mary and I are going to make it all right."
She looked at Mary, who still lay knotted in the agony of her experience. "Is there
anything I can do to help?"
"Nothing."
"Can I . . . can I stay. I'll keep out of the way. I just—"
"Vee, no."
"I just want to see what she has to go through. I want to see that the price she has to
pay to . . . to be like you is too high."
"You can't stay. You know you can't."
She closed her eyes for a moment, dropped her hand to her side. "Then, let me go. Let
me leave you."
He stared at her, surprised, stricken. "You know you're free to go if that's really what
you want. But I'm asking you not to."
"I'll become an outsider if I don't leave you now." She shrugged hopelessly. "I'll be
alone. You and Mary will be alike, and I'll be alone." There was no anger or resentment
in her, he could see. Her conditioning was holding well enough. But she had been much
more aware of Mary's loneliness than Karl had realized. And when Karl began
occasionally sleeping with Mary, Vivian had begun to see Mary's life as a preview of her
own. "You won't need me," she said softly. "You'll only come to me now and then to be
kind."
"Vee, will you stay until tomorrow?"
She said
speeding as usual. He had no more regard for traffic laws than he did for any other laws.
Karl wondered how many accidents Doro had caused or been involved in. Not that it
mattered to Doro. Had human life ever mattered to Doro beyond his interest in human
husbandry? Could a creature who had to look upon ordinary people literally as food and
shelter ever understand how strongly those people valued life? But yes, of course he
could. He understood it well enough to use it to keep his people in line. He probably even
understood it well enough to know how Karl and Mary both felt now. It just didn't make
any difference. He didn't care.
Fifteen minutes later, Doro pulled into Karl's driveway. Karl was out of the car and
heading for the house before Doro brought the car to a full stop. Karl knew that Mary was
in the midst of another experience. He had felt it begin. He had kept her under carefully
distant observation even after he had severed the link between them. Now, though, even
without a deliberately established link, he was having trouble preventing himself from
merging into her experience. Mary was trapped in the mind of a man who had to
eventually burn to death. The man was trapped inside a burning house. Mary was
experiencing his every sensation.
Karl went up the back stairs two at a time and ran through the servants' quarters
toward the front of the house. He knew Mary was in her room, lying down, knew that, for
some reason, Vivian was with her.
He walked into the room and looked first at Mary, who lay in the middle of her bed,
her body rolled into a tight, fetal knot. She made small noises in her throat like choked
screams or moans, but she did not move. Karl sat down on the bed next to her and looked
at Vivian.
"Is she going to be all right?" Vivian asked.
"I think so."
"Are you going to be all right?"
"If she is, I will be."
She got up, came to rest one hand on his shoulder. "You mean, if she comes through
all right, Doro won't kill you."
He looked at her, surprised. One of the things he liked about her was that she could
still surprise him. He left her enough mental privacy for that. He had read his previous
women more than he read her and they had quickly become boring. He had hardly read
Vivian at all until she had asked him to condition her and let her stay with him, help her
stay, in spite of Mary. He had not wanted to do it, but he had not wanted to lose her,
either. The conditioning he had imposed on her kept her from feeling jealousy or hatred
toward Mary. But it did not prevent her from seeing things clearly and drawing her own
conclusions.
"Don't worry," he told her. "Both Mary and I are going to make it all right."
She looked at Mary, who still lay knotted in the agony of her experience. "Is there
anything I can do to help?"
"Nothing."
"Can I . . . can I stay. I'll keep out of the way. I just—"
"Vee, no."
"I just want to see what she has to go through. I want to see that the price she has to
pay to . . . to be like you is too high."
"You can't stay. You know you can't."
She closed her eyes for a moment, dropped her hand to her side. "Then, let me go. Let
me leave you."
He stared at her, surprised, stricken. "You know you're free to go if that's really what
you want. But I'm asking you not to."
"I'll become an outsider if I don't leave you now." She shrugged hopelessly. "I'll be
alone. You and Mary will be alike, and I'll be alone." There was no anger or resentment
in her, he could see. Her conditioning was holding well enough. But she had been much
more aware of Mary's loneliness than Karl had realized. And when Karl began
occasionally sleeping with Mary, Vivian had begun to see Mary's life as a preview of her
own. "You won't need me," she said softly. "You'll only come to me now and then to be
kind."
"Vee, will you stay until tomorrow?"
She said
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