The Man Who Melted by Jack Dann Page A

made an odd couple: straight, stiff, squarely cut, and uncomfortable Pretre; and Joan, who was tiny, with short-cropped hair, pale, full face, and an air of casual Midwestern sureness, if not sophistication. “Carl is a friend of Ray's. It will be all right, I pledge so.”
    Pretre seemed to relax a bit. He looked coyly at Mantle and said, “I do not know your Raymond, except for a momentary glimpse.” It suddenly occurred to Mantle that, like Joan, Pretre was a poseur: the mock motions of fluttering and business, the ill-fitting, crinkle-neat uniform of the obedient convert were all protective guises. He suddenly saw Pretre as a survivor of the riots and burnings and camps.
    â€œJoan, I want to speak with you for a moment,” Mantle said, and he nodded to Pretre and left him standing awkwardly before Pfeiffer.
    â€œYou should not have come here.”
    â€œBut I wanted to be with you, to share the past, to help you find it,” she said, looking earnestly up at him. “You'll be different after you plug-into the Crier, and I want to be there to begin with you anew.”
    â€œYou should have told me what you are. Liar.”
    â€œYou weren't ready, and—can't you see?—I'm telling you now, just by being here, everything I've done—”
    It was too late. “Does Pretre know why I want to plug-into a Screamer?”
    Joan shrugged, her only affectation, and said, “Yes, I told him you are obsessed with the past; that—”
    â€œIt was a setup. From the beginning.”
    â€œThere was no other way to do it. And it was what you wanted.” It was to Joan's credit that she did not shrink from Mantle's stare. Poseur, he thought. User. Of course, subliminal engineers were always in demand, and most churches were evangelistic. Joan had done her homework. Well, he thought. It's fair. Mutual using.
    â€œI don't want you along,” Mantle said firmly.
    â€œI do love you,” Joan said, and, irrationally, Mantle believed her. But Joan was not Josiane. “We both have conflicting loyalties,” she continued, “and secrets to be shared. But don't shut me out, not now, I came to help you, perhaps plug-in and share—”
    â€œYou can help me by getting Pfeiffer out of my hair.”
    â€œI don't think Pretre would permit that.” Her voice lowered in register, becoming flat, cold. “He knows that plugging in could be dangerous for you.”
    â€œFor me ?” Mantle asked.
    â€œWell,” she said, shrugging again, then looking at him directly, defiantly, “you have admitted to right-brain tendencies…. I'm sorry, Ray. Let's stop this right now. Please, I want to be with you. It's no trick of the church.”
    â€œIs there anything you haven't told Pretre?”
    â€œNo,” she said, and accepting the inevitable, turned to Pfeiffer. “Carl, would you like to accompany me to my club for a drink while these two attend to their business?” Pretre gave her a nasty look; unmindful, she took Pfeiffer's arm. Pfeiffer, who seemed interested in Joan, started to say something to Mantle, but thought better of it and said, “All right, but I think we should meet later.”
    You won't want to see me later, Mantle thought. He nodded and told them he would join them at the club or her apartment later if he could, although he had no intention of doing so. They didn't need him around to have sex. Mantle looked at Joan. There was a momentary awkwardness, shared sadness and regret, and then she and Pfeiffer left arm in arm, swallowed into the happy crowd as the old-fashioned fireworks boomed and spiraled in the windy air above.
    Pretre silently led the way to the nearest transpod station. As they walked, the fireworks died away and the entire quay as far as La Castre became a huge videotecture. Lasers recreated the interior of Amiens Cathedral, which had been destroyed by terrorists; imaginary naves and chapels floated, as