we appreciated the scope of my feelings and understood that
there would have to be a delay before I could function coherently again.
I ground my teeth and clenched my hands. This
self-indulgence could be costly. It would simply have to be postponed.
I forced myself to get up and cross the room,
to regard the gray-haired, dark-eyed reflection of my fifty-some years in the
mirror that hung above the basin. I ran my hands through my hair. I smiled my
lopsided smile, but it did not look too convincing.
"You are a hell of a mess," I told
myself, and we nodded agreement.
I ran the water cold, sluicing the cracked
pavements of my face, washed my hands, felt slightly improved. Then, trying
hard not to think of anything but the immediate task, I fetched my clothes from
the wall-slot and dressed. Once I had begun moving, there arose a compulsive
need to continue. I had to get out of there. I rang for attention and began
pacing. I paused several times at the window and looked out at the small,
enclosed park, empty now of all but a few patients and visitors. High overhead,
the lights had already entered the dimming cycle. I could see three
corkscrewing jackpoles and the wide balconies of an arcaded area far to my
left, the glint of enclosure-facings in the shadows to their rear. Traffic on
the belts and crossovers was light, and there were no special airborne vehicles
in sight.
A sudden nurse fetched me the young doctor who
had said earlier that there was nothing wrong with me. Since we were now in
apparent agreement on this point, he told me that I could go home. I thanked
him and departed, discovering that I actually felt better as I walked down the
ramp and headed for the nearest beltway.
At first, I did not really care which way I
moved. I simply wanted to get away from the Dispensary, with all its smells and
reminders of that unfortunate state through which I had so recently journeyed.
I slid by enormous medical supply depots, airborne ambulances occasionally passing
overhead. Walls, dividers, shelves, pilings, platforms, ramps—all were white
and carbolic about me. I edged my way inward and onto the fastest belt.
Orderlies, nurses, doctors, patients and relatives of the deceased or ailing
slipped by me with increasing speed and good riddance. I hated the place with
its caches of medical stores, clinical subdivisions and supervised residences
for the recovering and those headed in the other direction. The belt flowed
through the corner of a park where such unfortunates waited, on benches and in
power chairs, for the day when the black door would open for them. Overhead,
birdlike power cranes transported units of people and machinery, to maintain
the perpetually recomputed requirements of the shifting people:things:power:
space equation, moving with but the faintest clucking amid the great
crosshatchery in the sky. I changed belts a dozen or so times, not drawing
another easy breath until I was well into the crowded, daylighted Kitchen, with
its size and movements and sounds and colors to remind me I was a permanent
part of this and not that other.
I ate in a small, brightly lit cafeteria. I
was very hungry, but after the first minute or so the food became tasteless and
its chewing and swallowing mechanical. I kept glancing at the other diners.
Unbidden, the thought came into my mind: Could it be one of them? What does a
murderer look like?
Anybody. It could be anybody . •. anybody with
a motive and a capacity for violence, neither of which appears on a person's
face. My inability to think of anyone possessing these qualities did not alter
the fact that they had been exercised a few hours earlier.
My appetite vanished.
Anybody.
there would have to be a delay before I could function coherently again.
I ground my teeth and clenched my hands. This
self-indulgence could be costly. It would simply have to be postponed.
I forced myself to get up and cross the room,
to regard the gray-haired, dark-eyed reflection of my fifty-some years in the
mirror that hung above the basin. I ran my hands through my hair. I smiled my
lopsided smile, but it did not look too convincing.
"You are a hell of a mess," I told
myself, and we nodded agreement.
I ran the water cold, sluicing the cracked
pavements of my face, washed my hands, felt slightly improved. Then, trying
hard not to think of anything but the immediate task, I fetched my clothes from
the wall-slot and dressed. Once I had begun moving, there arose a compulsive
need to continue. I had to get out of there. I rang for attention and began
pacing. I paused several times at the window and looked out at the small,
enclosed park, empty now of all but a few patients and visitors. High overhead,
the lights had already entered the dimming cycle. I could see three
corkscrewing jackpoles and the wide balconies of an arcaded area far to my
left, the glint of enclosure-facings in the shadows to their rear. Traffic on
the belts and crossovers was light, and there were no special airborne vehicles
in sight.
A sudden nurse fetched me the young doctor who
had said earlier that there was nothing wrong with me. Since we were now in
apparent agreement on this point, he told me that I could go home. I thanked
him and departed, discovering that I actually felt better as I walked down the
ramp and headed for the nearest beltway.
At first, I did not really care which way I
moved. I simply wanted to get away from the Dispensary, with all its smells and
reminders of that unfortunate state through which I had so recently journeyed.
I slid by enormous medical supply depots, airborne ambulances occasionally passing
overhead. Walls, dividers, shelves, pilings, platforms, ramps—all were white
and carbolic about me. I edged my way inward and onto the fastest belt.
Orderlies, nurses, doctors, patients and relatives of the deceased or ailing
slipped by me with increasing speed and good riddance. I hated the place with
its caches of medical stores, clinical subdivisions and supervised residences
for the recovering and those headed in the other direction. The belt flowed
through the corner of a park where such unfortunates waited, on benches and in
power chairs, for the day when the black door would open for them. Overhead,
birdlike power cranes transported units of people and machinery, to maintain
the perpetually recomputed requirements of the shifting people:things:power:
space equation, moving with but the faintest clucking amid the great
crosshatchery in the sky. I changed belts a dozen or so times, not drawing
another easy breath until I was well into the crowded, daylighted Kitchen, with
its size and movements and sounds and colors to remind me I was a permanent
part of this and not that other.
I ate in a small, brightly lit cafeteria. I
was very hungry, but after the first minute or so the food became tasteless and
its chewing and swallowing mechanical. I kept glancing at the other diners.
Unbidden, the thought came into my mind: Could it be one of them? What does a
murderer look like?
Anybody. It could be anybody . •. anybody with
a motive and a capacity for violence, neither of which appears on a person's
face. My inability to think of anyone possessing these qualities did not alter
the fact that they had been exercised a few hours earlier.
My appetite vanished.
Anybody.
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