The Man Who Melted by Jack Dann

the immovable object, said, “The funeral is only going to depress you. Going out will make you feel better.”
    â€œFuck off,” Mantle said wearily. “You haven't changed at all, have you? You still can't understand no .”
    â€œAll right, Raymond, I'm sorry. But you can at least tell me what kind of ceremony it is that you can't take me.”
    â€œThe ceremony is for a Screamer,” Mantle said, watching for Pretre. “Now would you still like to come along?” he asked, turning to Pfeiffer. “Perhaps you could plug-in and meet your mother.”
    â€œI said I was sorry, Raymond.” How Mantle hated the way Pfeiffer still used his full Christian name, as if Pfeiffer were a professor addressing a callow, pimply faced student. “You don't have to reach to try to hurt me, especially with my mother. You were close to her once upon a time, remember?” Pfeiffer stood his ground, his presence suffocating Mantle more than the people around him. It was then that Mantle became aware that the Festival gathering was becoming dense, turning into a crowd which might become dangerous.
    Mantle caught sight of Pretre and saw that Joan was with him. “Damn,” he said under his breath, forgetting about Pfeiffer, who was saying something to him. What's she doing here? Does she think she's going along? Joan had introduced Pretre to Mantle as a favor—she had interviewed him once, she said; but never, never had she spoken of having ever been to a ceremony. He felt conflicting emotions. Seeing her again, especially now, excited him. He loved her more than he admitted, felt protective toward her, and didn't want her around as there might he trouble. But more than that, he didn't want to share Josiane with her. For a split second, though, he considered giving up the whole venture. He could have his own life with Joan; after all, the past was already buried.
    Mantle waved at Joan and Pretre, who acknowledged by waving back. They made their way toward him through the crowd.
    Could she have been a member of that fucking church all along? Mantle asked himself. Anger and anxiety began to boil inside him. Pfeiffer took his arm to get his attention, “You don't want to get involved with that sort of thing. What's the matter with you?” Pfeiffer asked—a bit too loudly, for an American couple nearby were staring at him. “Plugging into a Screamer is illegal and dangerous, and the fate of the Christian Criers is in litigation.”
    â€œYou can't litigate faith,” Mantle said, and then he turned to greet Joan and Pretre.
    â€œHello, darling,” Joan said to Mantle. She appeared to be out of breath, but Mantle knew that as a sure sign of her nervousness. “I'm sorry we're late…the usual problems. Jesus, it's more crowded than we expected.” She looked over at Pfeiffer and said hello. Pretre glared at Pfeiffer, then turned his gaze toward Mantle.
    â€œCarl Pfeiffer, this is Joan Otur,” Mantle mumbled. Ignoring Pfeiffer and Pretre, he asked Joan, “What the hell are you doing here?”
    â€œI thought to come with you,” she said, her eyes averted. “The first time can be a bit unhinging.”
    â€œThen you have done this before,” Mantle said, feeling himself turning cold, and controlled, “And you never told me. Why?”
    â€œI kept losing my nerve. I was going to try to tell you when you came back from Naples. I was going to try….” She composed herself and looked him directly in the eyes. “It seems you have brought someone else, also,” she said, then turned to smile at Pfeiffer, who looked a bit embarrassed and bewildered, as did Pretre. But Pretre also looked anxious.
    â€œCarl is not staying,” Mantle said.
    â€œI think, perhaps, I'd better leave,” Pretre said curtly. “Another time.”
    â€œOh, no, Francois,” Joan said, taking Pretre's arm. “Stay, please.” They