The Man Who Melted by Jack Dann Page B

if in God's thoughts, above the Festival. People passed through the aisles and holy walls of the holographic structure like angels moving to and fro in heavenly reverie. The crowd was thick near the transpod station, everyone howling and halooing. As if on cue, hawkers appeared everywhere, selling their wares: holy inhalors with a touch of the dust of Palestine, shards of the true cross, magical silver amulets, and bone fragments of the true Christ. There was even an old woman dressed in rags selling dates, halvah, and plastic phylacteries.
    It certainly was like the old days, Mantle thought.
    â€œCome on, hurry,” Pretre said, obviously disgusted with the goings-on around him. A car was waiting inside the small, glassite station, and a transpod rut descended into the ground a few meters away. The transpod looked like a translucent egg; it was computer controlled and driven by a propulsion system built into the narrow rut.
    Pretre punched in the coordinates, opaqued the walls for privacy, and with a slight jar, they were off.
    â€œWhere is the ceremony taking place?” Mantle asked after a few moments to break the awkward silence. Pretre seemed to be lost in contemplation, as if he were deciding whether to take Mantle to the funeral after all.
    â€œNear Plage du Dramont,” Pretre said, “South of here.”
    A long pause, and then Mantle asked, “Has Joan told you why I want to attend the ceremony?”
    â€œYes,” Pretre said matter-of-factly. “She told me of your lost wife, Josiane. A terrible thing, but a common problem these days.”
    â€œIf you know that, why are you taking me to the ceremony?”
    â€œSo that you can see and believe that, but by the grace of our Screamers, as you call them, we have not only found a new faith, but another, higher form of consciousness,” Pretre said.
    â€œAnd if I remain an unbeliever?”
    Pretre shrugged. “Then at least you will owe us a favor. Perhaps you will regain your memory, perhaps not. Perhaps this dying Crier can take you to your wife's thoughts, perhaps not. But I'm reasonably certain that you would not want to make public what you see tonight, as we could certainly affect your position with the newsfax. Given your previous record and your incarceration after you left New York…”
    Mantle held back his anger; it would not do to spoil his chance at a plug-in now.
    â€œWe still have a bit of a ride,” Pretre said. “If you like, I can give you a blow-job.” That was said in his matter-of-fact voice, which was now without a trace of an accent.
    â€œWhy did you bring Joan?” Mantle asked, ignoring Pretre's polite suggestion.
    â€œThat was for your own safety. It was her suggestion—she's concerned for you. You know the chances of getting lost in another's mind, or you should. You might become a Crier yourself.” Pretre smiled, enjoying the irony. “The presence of a familiar, sympathetic mind could help you, should you lapse into fugue. Now you take your chances. Whatever you might think of Joan now, she does love you, and has for quite some time. Of that I can assure you. I thought you treated her rather badly. Of course, that's none of my business….”
    â€œThat's right,” Mantle said. “It isn't.” But Pretre was right: Mantle had treated her badly. He had always treated her badly. And now he was afraid of being alone. Suddenly, everything seemed hard, metallic, hollow. Mantle remembered his first experience with enlightenment drugs; how the trip reversed and he scammed down into the stinking bowels of his mind, through the hard tunnels of thought where everything was dead and leaden.
    He might become lost inside the Screamer and still not find Josiane. At the thought, his insides seemed to open up, his heart began to pound, and he had a sudden rush of claustrophobia. Where was Joan to protect him…?
    â€œIf you don't mind, I'm going to transparent