His hand passed across her cheek. She was facing the mirror above the fireplace and she could see how the hand came out to stroke the cheek and, in that very motion, she saw the sign of love.
His hand dropped away and she gasped in disbelief. It was her imagination, she told herself, it was a moment of latent wish-fulfillment. She wasn’t really seeing what she thought she saw. In another second or two the imaginative process would pass away and she’d return to normal.
She stood rigid as the seconds passed away. She closed her eyes and opened them and the wish-fulfillment was still working.
“Jason!” she said, speaking low, trying to control her voice, but unable to keep it from shaking.
“Jason!” she said again, the word cracking with emotion.
Her cheek remained unblemished. The stigma was no longer there.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Decker halted well before sunset, having found a spot where he could camp for the night. A spring gushed from a hillside, giving origin to a small stream that went trickling down a valley. A grove of low, dense mountain shrubs grew to the north of the spring, promising protection against night winds swooping from the peaks that loomed ahead. There was a dead tree fallen just downstream of the site, propped up against a nest of boulders, providing an easy supply of dry wood.
Decker set to work methodically. He hauled in wood from the dead tree and got a cooking fire started, then chopped and stored wood against the night. He set up a small tent that would serve to shelter him if rain came and unrolled his sleeping bag. He brought a pail of water from the spring and hung a kettle to boil for coffee, then unwrapped two fish he’d caught earlier in the day and prepared for the pan on the spot, wrapping them in leaves against the time when he would need them. These he put into a pan and settled down to cooking supper. First, however, he made sure the rifle was propped against a boulder within easy reach. In all the time he’d spent on his trips into the mountains, he had seldom needed it, but natural caution told him he could not rule out the possibility of sometime needing it.
Whisperer as yet had not caught up with him and, thinking this, he knew the thought was illogical. Whisperer had not known that he was planning on the trip—in fact, he had not really planned it; he’d simply up and left. It had not been an impulsive action; there had been no sense of urgency to get going, no sudden need to leave and go into the mountains. The trip had come quite naturally, as a matter of course. The garden was all hoed and the woodpile was well up and there had been nothing else to do. Without much surprise, he had found himself preparing for the trip. He had not thought of it as something special; it had been just another trip, in the course of which he would pick up some gemstones if he should be lucky. He had thought momentarily of driving down to Vatican to see if Tennyson might want to go with him, but had told himself it might be a bad time for Tennyson. As Vatican physician, Jason probably would have to stick around to keep an eye on Mary. Some other time, he had told himself.
It was not that he wanted to be alone; he liked the man. Tennyson was the first man he had met in years that he really liked. He was, Decker thought, a man very like himself. Tennyson never talked too much and never about the wrong things. He asked few questions and those he asked were sensible. He had the knack of approaching an awkward situation with diplomatic ease. What he’d had to say about Whisperer could have been a sticky matter, but he’d come to it directly and with a frankness that was refreshing in itself and it had not been awkward in the least for either one of them.
As he squatted by the fire, tending the frying fish, he found himself wishing that Whisperer were with him. If Whisperer had known that he was going into the mountains, he’d probably have come along. Whisperer liked the trips they took. There always was a lot for them to talk about, and Whisperer derived as much fun as he did out of searching the streambed gravels for the gems they often came upon. Whisperer, he recalled, invariably was a good sport in this regard. He never bragged unduly about the gems he found that Decker had passed by, unseeing.
He had realized when Tennyson first told him what had occurred with Whisperer that he might see less of him. Sometimes that might have been a plus, for no question about it, there were occasions when Whisperer could be something of a pest. But he had been certain that the old friendship would not be broken—he and Whisperer had been together too long for that to happen. Thinking of it now, he was certain that it had not happened, that Whisperer’s present absence was not due to any lessening of their association. With Tennyson, Whisperer probably would pick up some new interests, and he might now be off somewhere running one of them to earth. But in a short while he’d be back. Decker was sure of that. Before this trip was over, chances were that Whisperer would come sniffing down his trail to join him.
The coffee kettle threatened to boil over, and he reached out a hand to grasp the forked stick that held it, intending to move it away from the heat of the fire. The kettle exploded in his face. It went flying through the air, crumpled by an unseen force. Boiling coffee sprayed his face and chest.
In an automatic reflex action, Decker dived for the rifle propped against the boulder and as his fingers grasped it, the sickening, snarling crack of another rifle sounded from the hillside above him.
Rifle in hand, Decker rolled behind the boulder, raised himself cautiously to peer above it. The shot had come from the direction of a rocky outcrop halfway up the hill, but there seemed to be nothing there.
“The bastard shot too soon,” Decker said aloud. “He could have crawled a little closer and had a better chance. He was too anxious.”
The crumpled kettle lay a good ten feet or more beyond the campfire. The fish in the pan, he saw, were smoking, crisping. If he was tied up here too long, they’d be ruined. Dammit! he thought—he had been looking forward to those fish. He could almost taste them.
Now who would be shooting at him? Who would want to kill him? He was certain he had been the target of the rifleman. Not the coffee pot. The shot had been to kill, not to frighten.
He watched, flicking his gaze along the hillside, intent on catching any movement, any sign of movement. This could not have happened, he told himself, if Whisperer had been with him. Hours ago, Whisperer would have spotted the one who had been stalking them. It would have to be someone, he told himself, who would have known that Whisperer was not with him—but that was wrong, he thought, it had to be wrong, for no one in End of Nothing knew of Whisperer. He had never told anyone and so far as he knew no one could see Whisperer; therefore no one could be aware of him. Tennyson was the only one who knew—and probably Jill, for there were no secrets between the two of them. Could Tennyson have told Ecuyer? he wondered. It seemed unlikely. Tennyson and Ecuyer were friends but Tennyson, he felt certain, would not tell Ecuyer of Whisperer.
All this, he reminded himself, was footless speculation. Undeterred by Whisperer, for no one knew of Whisperer, anyone could have come hunting him. It was just his tough luck that, without Whisperer, he had been caught flat-footed. It couldn’t be Tennyson up there on the hillside. Tennyson had no reason. Even if he had, this was not his style.
There were some rifles—a few rifles—in End of Nothing. Some hunters occasionally went into the woods in search of meat. Mostly small caliber, however. From the sound of it, the one up there on the hill was a heavy caliber.
He ran down the names of people who might want to kill him. He could scarcely think of any, having to stretch his imagination to make up a list. Having come up with one, he rejected each of the names. The few that he could think of could not possibly have that strong a motive. A few, at times, might have been offended by something he had said or done, but certainly not so touched to the quick as to come hunting him. The whole idea of someone out gunning for him was ridiculous. And yet there was someone out there, hiding on the hillside with killing in his heart, waiting for him to move and betray his position so the watcher could send a bullet through him.
Something hard and going fa
st hit the boulder’s edge, four feet or so from Decker. Chips of granite flew and a few of them struck his cheek and neck with stinging force. The report of the shot reverberated in the hills. The bullet, up-ended in its flight, went howling off in a ricochet, tumbling end for end.
Up there, Decker told himself, up there by the stone outcropping—a tiny spot that had momentarily glittered in the rays of the setting sun. Decker tried to make out what it was but was unable to. He slid the barrel of his rifle along the boulder until it was pointed approximately at the spot.
Nothing happened. Nothing stirred. There was no sound. The killer waited. Then Decker saw the beginning of a shape and traced it out—a shoulder, a hint of torso, the suggestion of a head.
He crouched close against the rifle, cuddling it hard against him, lining up the sights. The shoulder, and there was the head, half in shadow, not sharply outlined, but it had to be a head. He took it in his sights, froze them on it, drew in a breath and held it, began the trigger squeeze …
Chapter Thirty-eight
Tennyson woke just before dawn. Jill lay beside him, asleep, breathing softly, regularly. He propped his pillow against the headboard and slid his body up to lean against it. The dark was quiet. Faint predawn light filtered through the windows of the living room; the blinds were drawn and no light could seep into the bedroom. In the kitchen the refrigerator was humming to itself.
He glanced down at Jill to see if the cheek was still clear and unblemished, but she was turned so that it was against the pillow. Even had it not been, he told himself, in the faintness of the light reflected from the living room he probably would not have been able to be sure.
Thinking of it now, even hours after it had happened, he still felt the stir of disbelief. Yet there had been evidence, hours of evidence, that the angry red scar was no longer there. Surely, if for whatever reason, it had been only a temporary effect, it should have started to return within those hours.
He raised his right hand in front of him, close to his face, and stared at it. It was shadowed in the darkness; all he could see was the shape of it. The hand was in no way different. It did not glow in the dark; it was as it had always been.
And yet the touch of it.…
He shivered in a sudden coldness, although the night was warm. He tried to remember back, digging back through the folds of otherwhere, to the equation world. The equations had spun around him in a dizzy swirl, they had gone knifing through him; some of them, he was sure, had lodged inside of him and stayed. There had been a time toward the end of what he could remember when it had seemed that he, himself, had shrunk to an equation—shrunk, he thought, or grown? He tried to remember what sort of equation he had been—if, in fact, he had ever known. Certainly not one of those fat, monstrous equations, frightening in their very complexity, that he had glimpsed while he lay buried in the quivering jelly sea. Perhaps he had been a very simple equation, a simple statement of himself. When the diagrams had built the house for him, he recalled, he had quickly scuttled under it and had crouched, not knowing what he was, but quite content with what he was. A simple thought, a simple reasoning that might have gone along with a very simple equation. Had the diagrams built the shelter, he wondered, to protect him against the ravening equations that flashed and whirled outside it, spinning all around it?
Then, suddenly, with no warning, he had been free of the equation world, to find himself standing in the living room with his back turned to the fire. Free—but not entirely free, for he had brought back something from the equation world, some quality, some ability that he had not had before. There had been one evidence of that new ability; would there now be more? What am I, he asked himself, what am I, the continuing question that he had asked when he had huddled in the house the diagrams had built.
Human, he wondered, am I human still? How many alien concepts can be grafted onto human stock and it still stay human?
Had the folk of the equation world, he asked himself, known or sensed that he was a physician, a healer? Had they confined their rebuilding of him—if it had been rebuilding—to the sole purpose of designing him into a better healer? Or had they tinkered with other facets of his life as well?
Thinking of it, he was frightened, and the more he thought about it, the more frightened he became. He had meddled into something that he had no right to meddle with and he had not come out unscathed. He had been changed and he desired no change. Change was uncomfortable under any circumstance; a change in one’s self was terrifying.
Yet why should he feel such terror? The change, whatever it might be, how limited or extensive, whatever it might come to in the future, had made it possible for him to give to Jill—unwittingly, and yet he’d given it—a gift that no other human could have given her.
And that was it. There was no point in being frightened or being terrified. In the end, so far as he was concerned, it all came down to Jill. If in all the future there was nothing else—if, in fact, in future time he should suffer for it—there would be no regret. Any future price that might be exacted from him would be worth what he had done. He had been paid in full in that moment he had laid his hand upon her cheek.
Thinking this, he felt a calmness in him. He stayed propped up in bed, not sliding back down again, staring into the gray edge of the early dawn. In his thoughts he went back again to the equation world, trying to puzzle how he had managed to go there in person, although he knew without question that it had not been he who had been able to go there but Whisperer who had been able to take him there. To understand how Whisperer had done it, he’d have to know a great deal more about Whisperer than he knew.
Turning his head slowly, he scanned the room, looking for some evidence of Whisperer—a glitter in a corner, a sparkle in the air. He saw no glitter or sparkle. He searched inside himself for Whisperer, for Whisperer might still be with him. But there was no hint of him, although that was not good evidence, for in the equation world, he’d not been aware of Whisperer.
He jerked himself more fully awake, for there was a tapping. It stopped for a moment and then started up again. It seemed to have no direction, it could come from almost anywhere. Listening closely, he identified it. There was someone at the door. He swung himself easily out of bed, sitting on the edge, his feet seeking blindly for the slippers that did not seem to be there.
Jill stirred in the bed, making an inquiring sound. “It’s all right,” he told her. “You stay here. There’s someone at the door.”
He failed to find the slippers and stood up without them, making his way around the bed and into the living room. He closed the bedroom door behind him. The tapping on the door had stopped for a time, but now it began again, a discreet tapping, not insistent.
Without turning on lights, Tennyson made his way across the living room, skirting chairs and tables. When he opened the door, for a moment he did not recognize the man who stood outside it, then saw that it was Ecuyer.
“Jason, I am sorry. This ungodly hour …”
“It’s all right,” said Tennyson. “I was just lying there and thinking. Ready to get up.”
“Could you spare a drink? Some brandy if you have it.”
“Certainly,” said Tennyson. “Sit down in front of the fire. I’ll put on another log.”
He closed the door and had a closer look at Ecuyer. The man was dressed in slacks and jacket.
“Up early?” he asked. “Or didn’t you go to bed at all?”
“Never went to bed,” said Ecuyer, reaching the couch before the fire and collapsing onto it.
Tennyson found the brandy and brought Ecuyer a snifter with a generous helping.
“You look all tired out,” he told him.
“I am tired out,” said Ecuyer. “Something horrible has happened. Something that’s never happened before. Or I don’t think it has.”
Tennyson put another log on the fire and walked back to the couch, sitting down beside Ecuyer and hoisting his bare feet up on the coffee table. He wiggled his toes. The
heat from the fire felt good on them.
Ecuyer took another deep drink of the brandy. “You won’t join me?”
Tennyson shook his head. “Too early in the day.”
“Ah, well,” said Ecuyer, “since I never went to bed …” He drank more of the brandy.
“There’s something you came here to tell me,” said Tennyson, “and you’re taking a long time getting to it. If you have changed your mind …”
“No, I’m just putting it off. It’s something you have to know. It’s a bit painful.”
Tennyson said nothing. Ecuyer continued working on the brandy.
“It was like this,” Ecuyer finally said. “I’ve been putting off having a look at the second Heaven cube. You know I have. You’ve been bugging me about it. Jason, did you ever get around to viewing the first Heaven cube?”
“No. Somehow I felt a strange reluctance. Maybe slightly afraid of it. Uncomfortable at the thought of it. I know I should have. I might have found something that would have helped me to treat Mary.”
“I felt the same reluctance with the second cube,” said Ecuyer. “I kept putting it off, finding reasons to put it off. Maybe I was afraid of what I might experience. I don’t know. I tried to analyze my feelings and came up zilch. Then last evening I decided—forced myself to decide—I’d fooled around long enough.”
“So you finally viewed it.”
“No, Jason, I didn’t.”
“Why the hell not? Shy off at the last moment?”
“Not that. It wasn’t there.”
“What do you mean, it wasn’t there?”
“Just that. It isn’t there. It isn’t where we put it. We, old Ezra and me. You know Ezra. He’s the custodian.”