Pstalemate Page 8

  So it was ended. She'd spent more than ten years hiding and pretending, holding in everything that was inside her while her power slowly grew, until it could be held no longer. Then the final shock that left her unable to make believe any longer.

  Uncle Charley had suffered, too, trying to pretend along with her. Maybe that's why he had been so savage about the past and what was ahead for her. But she couldn't consent to his plans to save her. She wanted no such retreat or treatment. So she'd tried leaving him, to make it on her own. And now she was crawling back, as he'd sworn she would.

  Maybe he'd make a compromise now. She was more than ready to meet him halfway. And maybe it no longer mattered so much to her. She'd given up too much already. A little more might not be that important.

  It wouldn't be for much longer, anyhow. And when she could fight to preserve herself no longer, perhaps it would help to have someone near who had at least some knowledge.

  She got out, hesitating before the elevators. There was the one that led to the apartment she had shared so long with Grimes, and she still had the key to that in her pocket. There were the other two that led to Harry's place.

  She was torn, partly because of her promise to get in touch with him, even though she'd never meant to keep it. But after the one move toward what she thought of as Harry's elevator, she pulled back.

  She'd made up her mind years before when she first realized how much she was attracted to him that she couldn't let him hurt himself with her. Maybe there was risk for him, too—but in her case, it was known certainty.

  She drew back and turned resolutely toward the private elevator, the key out and in her hand. Then she froze, while her face blanched into a mask of shock.

  "No," she whispered. "No. Harry, no!"

  She stood beating against the two elevators until one door opened. There was someone getting off, but she dashed under a load of packages and was jabbing the button to close the door before the man could do more than gasp angrily.

  Then she was at the door of Harry's apartment, screaming at him in her mind.

  VIII. TWO

  The cup slipped out of Harry's hand to crash onto the floor, where his staring eyes saw the pieces scatter through the brown stain of the coffee. He'd have to clean that up, he thought. He liked a neat kitchen. His arm slipped down until it hung limply at his side, with his hand making a small pendulum arc. And then gradually his whole body began to bend forward.

  It was all very interesting, like watching the description he'd read of a case of catatonic reaction. Next he'd start to bring his knees up into a fetal position, maybe. No, that wasn't happening. His legs were as limp as the rest of him. He seemed to be slipping down to the edge of the chair now.

  This was all wrong, of course. He was supposed to lose control of himself in three months, not now. He had precognition—a very fine case of it, complete with bumps and running sores of the mind. He couldn't fight precognition by collapsing now. That would be cheating. But what was three months, anyhow?

  He heard a scream in his mind, and there was a pounding on his door. It was for him, he supposed. Somebody wanted to see him. Did he want to see somebody? He considered the question gravely. Yeah, he had wanted to see Ellen. But that was all right, he had seen her. And she hadn't wanted to see him.

  "Ellen?" he asked aloud.

  "Yes, Harry. Harry! Let me in. You can't stay alone with that! Not when I'm right here."

  "Go away, Ellen. I'll get in touch with you later."

  "Harry, please. You can come to the door. Just try it. Please, Harry!"

  Funny how clear it was, just like real conversation. Better. He could look through her eyes, could see the number on the door. Never really had vision that sharp through other eyes before. Things always looked different through a girl's eyes. They didn't see curves and straight lines the same. Thought they did, though. They still called them the same names.

  "You're a coward, Harry," the voice in his head went on. "Go on, I dare you to try to stand up. I dare you, I double dare you!"

  "I never take a dare," he answered seriously.

  Something was wrong there. That was a memory that he hadn't recovered—and yet it fitted in with all the other bits and pieces. There'd been the girl and a little brook. He'd gotten all wet, too. Very carefully, he put it out of his mind. He'd had all the memories he wanted. They made him sick, and he didn't want to be sick now.

  Funny, he didn't remember sitting on the floor. His tail-bone hurt, too, as if he'd fallen. Maybe he had fallen. A fallen freak? And the creatures of hell saw the sons of Earth, that they were fair play. No, that wasn't right; the quotation was all wrong. Unless it came from a story. Maybe the author meant it to be wrong. That made it all right. And right was wrong and wrong was right.

  Regression. That what he was in. He was just regressing. He was going to run away, all the way back to where he came in maybe, and then nothing could catch him. He'd fool them all.

  He looked idly at his leg, wondering why it felt wet. Wasn't near the coffee. Shouldn't be wet. Ah!

  Yes, it was regression. His bladder was already regressed. He'd heard about things like that. He'd have to tell Ellen about it. He didn't have to take the dare now.

  Didn't need to fall in the creek. He was wet already.

  "Ellen?" he called out. But there was no answer. Didn't matter. He would soon be too young for girls. Might try playing doctor again, though. I'll show you if you'll show me. That was a nice game, but it hadn't been fun to be whipped for it.

  "That," he explained to his wet leg, "is where all the trouble starts. Bunch of grown-ups come along just when things are fun and whip us. Makes us get sex and pain all mixed up. Turns us into masochists and sadists. Must be how all the perversions begin."

  He considered his shoes. He'd been able to tie his own shoelaces. But there were no laces. Didn't matter. They came off. And his pants were wet. They came off next. The briefs were more trouble. He had to lift himself for that. But the shirt was better. The buttons just flew off when he pulled hard enough.

  He lay on the wet floor, experimenting. By kicking against the stove with one foot, he could make himself slide a few inches. Then he could get his toes underneath and slide back. But he needed more wetness. He tried to provide it, but nothing happened.

  It was then he made the discovery of himself. Army doctor had wanted to circumcise him. He was glad he'd refused. Much nicer this way, with the skin loose so it could slip back and forth. It felt good.

  He heard the door open and stopped guiltily. He knew what happened when he was caught at that. The woman he couldn't see would beat him and talk about sin.

  "Don't," he begged. "Don't whip me. I won't do it again."

  But it was only Ellen, tossing the passkey onto the sink counter. She must be cold. She was shivering all over, though she didn't have goose bumps.

  "You won't whip me, will you, Ellen?"

  "No, Harry. Nobody will whip you." She seemed to want to go on clinging to the edge of the stupid old sink, and her smile was all twisty. Her face was a funny color, too, and her eyes sort of slipped aside every time she looked at him. But her words were warm in his head, mostly. "You can keep on doing it if it makes you feel better."

  "Bigger. See?"

  She looked away then for a second. "Yes, I see. But that floor is messy, and you'll cut yourself on the broken china. Why don't we go into the bathroom and let me fill the tub? It will be even nicer there."

  That, he conceded, was a good idea. He'd try it underwater. He should have thought of that himself. He'd never been good at such ideas, though. Ellen had always been quicker at it than he was. That's probably why the woman he couldn't see had called her that nasty little girl. But she wasn't really nasty. He'd bitten her hard once, and she hadn't tasted nasty at all.

  "She was a nasty little girl, all the same," Ellen told him. "And she grew up even worse—into a nasty-nice woman. She turned into a rotten prude. Harry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can't—"

/>   She was gone then. But he could hear her turning the water on in the tub, so it was going to be all right. Maybe she had a plastic duck. No, that was all wrong. He hadn't regressed that far, not yet. But he'd bet he could, if he wanted to try. He could probably regress all the way back. Only then he wouldn't have much fun, because he'd be too young.

  Ellen came back with a big towel which she threw over him. But it tickled, and he tossed it aside, where it began soaking up the liquid on the floor.

  She wasn't shivering so much, at least. Now she knelt down beside him, taking his shoulders. "Harry, I'm not strong enough to lift you. I'll help you up, but you've got to try. Please, Harry, we've got to get you to the bathroom."

  "I will if you'll take me by the handle," he told her.

  He thought for a second that she was going to whip him, after all. Her face was that funny color again, too, and she was making a harsh sound between her teeth. But she nodded. "All right, Harry. I'll try."

  His head felt strange as he got to his knees, and his legs were all wobbly when he stood on them. "I guess I'm a little bit sick," he decided. "I'm all weak, Ellen."

  She shook her head firmly. "No, Harry. It only seems that way. You're very strong. Nobody else could take all the things that have been done to you. Even having to go through fifteen years of experience in a month. Oh, I could kill them!"

  "Killing's a sin—I think," he said thoughtfully. "Ouch, you're squeezing too tight!"

  She made a funny noise, but her arm around his shoulder felt good as she led him toward the bathroom. There he had trouble getting into the tub. But once the pleasant buoyance of the water accepted his body, he felt better.

  "You're all over dirty, too," he noticed. "You need a bath now."

  "I'll take one later," she promised.

  "No. Now!"

  Why should that make her cry? She hadn't even cried when he bit her, though she'd been awful mad at him. He started to sniffle sympathetically. "I didn't mean anything, Ellen. Honest, I didn't mean to hurt you."

  "No, darling. I know you didn't. It's all my fault. I listened to the wrong people and let myself grow up wrong. And then it was too late. At least, I thought it was." She found the tissues and dabbed at her eyes. Her shoulders gradually straightened, and she smiled at him. It was a good smile this time. "Do you really want me there with you? All right, then."

  Girls, he decided, were funny. She hadn't taken her clothes off yet, and already she was starting to shiver again. He never shivered, even in his cold bedroom in winter, until after he was undressed. Boys must be a lot smarter about such things than girls. And why should she turn her back when she took off her clothes? That was silly. She was just as naked on both sides. He wondered what she was thinking of . .

  Now that was funny. He'd known how to find out about such things. Just a little while ago, he had heard what she was thinking. There was—

  She turned back to face him suddenly. "No, Harry! Don't even try to remember that. Oh, God, give him time!

  Don't make him face it all yet! Harry!"

  "Yes, Ellen?"

  "Harry, remember—remember when we played doctor under the porch. And I had to take off all my clothes so you could examine me. Remember?"

  "You said the stethoscope was too cold," he agreed doubtfully. "And I got whipped. I remember."

  "There's nobody to whip us now, Harry. We can play any game we want to. See, I won't whip you. And you won't whip me. And there's nobody else. You can even—even touch me."

  He did and she screamed.

  He cringed back and started to tell her he was sorry if he'd hurt her. But then she was in the tub with him, and she had his head in her hands and was crying again, hugging him close to her. Girls didn't make much sense. But it felt good. She was a lot more interesting now than she had been under the porch. There were more things to see.

  "I won't do anything you don't want," he told her. "I like you, Ellen."

  "And I love you, darling. Really." She drew her face back, and it was all streaked, but now she was laughing a little. Then it grew sober again. "And, Harry, you can do anything you want. Anything. Don't mind how I act. I'm just silly. I guess that's because I'm a girl. I know better, but I can't help myself. I'll learn, though."

  He reached out a doubtful finger, and she seemed to stiffen; but there was no scream this time. Then he pointed to himself. "I've got them, too. See. Only mine are all little."

  "I know." She touched him on the breast lightly, and he giggled. "I can't help it, Harry, being bigger than you are. That's the way girls are when they grow up."

  But he'd lost interest by then. He was studying her toes where he could see them beside him. They were so thin, and they bent inward. It must be those tight shoes girls wore.

  "I could read minds once," he assured her.

  "You'll be able to again."

  "No, I mean a long time ago. I could talk to my father when he was far away. I was precocious."

  "You told me so then, but I didn't believe you. I couldn't do it until I was fourteen, and then it began very slowly. You must have been very bright, Harry. Do you remember your father?"

  He tried, but nothing would come. There was just a vague body without a face and a feeling of something warm and strong in his head. "No. Ellen, were you really truly the little girl I used to play with?"

  "Really, truly, darling." She gasped and grabbed the edge of the tub as he explored her body with his big toe, but it didn't seem to bother her as much this time.

  The water was growing colder then, and he was glad when she suggested that they'd had enough. She helped him dry off when he was still unsteady on his feet, and let him use the towel on her back. He watched the water running out of the tub.

  "Bet I can do something you can't," he challenged her. But he wasn't as good at it as he remembered he'd once been. Even forcing himself, he couldn't seem to urinate for a greater distance than three feet back from the tub. He gave up in disgust. "Better not put those clothes back on. They're all dirty. You can wear some of my pajamas."

  He'd expected her to make a fuss about wearing boy's things, but this time she seemed to like the idea. She brought back another pair from the bedroom for him.

  "You wait here, Harry. I've still got to clean up the kitchen."

  He nodded, trying to remember something. Then he had it. "That's why I couldn't do better. I already went on the floor there."

  "I noticed," she admitted. But she didn't seem angry about it. She was a nice girl. Besides, she felt soft and good when she'd let him pull her against him.

  The kitchen was clean, and he was a little steadier by the time he followed her out. Ellen had found things in the refrigerator and was putting pots and a skillet on the stove. She said something about an omelet, and he nodded. He'd been taught to eat what was put before him and not to ask questions.

  "Don't go away again, Ellen," he asked her as she began to dish the food out onto plates. "I like you here."

  "All right, darling. I like me here, too."

  He was eating, but he wasn't much aware of what the food tasted like. Something was happening in his mind, and it was more interesting. He was growing up. It had begun right after the bath. The regression was moving into full reverse. And with the change came a wave of embarrassment for what he'd said and done in front of her. He saw her studying him and realized she must be reading his mind. But he skittered away from that, holding to the new seriousness that had replaced his earlier play mood.

  "Why have I forgotten so much, Ellen?" he asked.

  She was still studying him thoughtfully as he waited for her answer. There was a frown on her face as she thought about something. Then she sighed.

  "All right, I'll try to answer some of it. How old are you now, Harry?"

  The answer came without his thinking. "Twelve, I guess."

  "Yes, that's old enough. You know about what happened to my father and mother—yes, I see, Uncle Charley told you that. She begged my father to do what he did,
I think. I wasn't there, Harry. I was spared that. I was somewhere playing with you. And right afterwards, Uncle Charley took me away to New York. I was eight then. So I don't know too much, except what I heard from him and later. Do you know about your own parents?"

  He nodded doubtfully. "They told me it was an auto accident. But I don't believe that now. It was worse. She tried to kill me in a fire. Tell me."

  "Your father was a very famous surgeon, being called into consultation everywhere. I remember him as almost a stranger and the only man with a beard I'd seen until then. Your mother and he were first cousins. I think she felt their marriage was a sin. Before, she had been my father's partner—but you know that."

  "She went insane," Harry said. And something dreadful rose in the back of his mind. But almost at once, Ellen was behind him, pulling and turning his head against her breast.

  "Don't, Harry. Not yet. You're still twelve. You'll have time enough later."

  "You're very good to me." The dark cloud was receding, though he knew it must return. He went back to the story. "She went insane, and she wanted to kill me. Isn't that true?"

  "Yes, Harry. When your father was away, about two months after what happened to my parents, she set fire to the house, holding you inside with her. But your father knew. He came back in time to get her and you both out. Nobody could understand how he did it. But she never recovered. They took her away."

  "And my father took me away?"

  "I think so. Some small private hospital where they treated your burns. And—I don't know much about this, but I gather he tried something on you. Something mixed up with drugs and hypnosis. And if you and he could really read minds—yes, I see you could—well, I suppose he could reach you directly. He blocked out your memories and your abilities. He meant to save you, Harry."

  "What happened to him?" Harry asked. He was feeling some stirring of memory now, filling in the gaps. There'd been a partial block from the shock of his mother's treatment of him. His father had only channeled and deepened it

  "He told Uncle Charley he was going away to have himself confined to an institution. He was partly psychotic by then, too—though who could blame him?"