Star Science Fiction 3 - [Anthology] Read online

  * * * *

  Mrs. Hanshaw chose a psychiatrist with care. Her first impulse was to find one at a distance. For a while, she considered stepping directly into the San Francisco Medical Center and choosing one at random.

  And then it occurred to her that by doing that she would become merely an anonymous consultant. She would have no way of obtaining any greater consideration for herself than would be forthcoming to any public-Door user of the city slums. Now if she remained in her own community, her word would carry weight—

  She consulted the district map. It was one of that excellent series prepared by Doors, Inc., and distributed free of charge to their clients. Mrs. Hanshaw couldn’t quite suppress that little thrill of civic pride as she unfolded the map. It wasn’t a fine-print directory of Door co-ordinates only. It was an actual map, with each house carefully located.

  And why not? District A-3 was a name of moment in the world, a badge of aristocracy. It was the first community on the planet to have been established on a completely Doored basis. The first, the largest, the wealthiest, the best-known. It needed no factories, no stores. It didn’t even need roads. Each house was a little secluded castle, the Door of which had entry anywhere the world over where other Doors existed.

  Carefully, she followed down the keyed listing of the five thousand families of District A-3. She knew it included several psychiatrists. The learned professions were well represented in A-3.

  Doctor Hamilton Sloane was the second name she arrived at and her finger lingered upon the map. His office was scarcely two miles from the Hanshaw residence. She liked his name. The fact that he lived in A-3 was evidence of worth. And he was a neighbor, practically a neighbor. He would understand that it was a matter of urgency—and confidential.

  Firmly, she put in a call to his office to make an appointment.

  * * * *

  Doctor Hamilton Sloane was a comparatively young man, not quite forty. He was of good family and he had indeed heard of Mrs. Hanshaw.

  He listened to her quietly and then said, “And this all began with the Door breakdown.”

  “That’s right, doctor.”

  “Does he show any fear of the Doors?”

  “Of course not. What an idea!” She was plainly startled.

  “It’s possible, Mrs. Hanshaw, it’s possible. After all, when you stop to think of how a Door works it is rather a frightening thing, really. You step into a Door, and for an instant your atoms are converted into field-energies, transmitted to another part of space and reconverted into matter. For that instant you’re not alive.”

  “I’m sure no one thinks of such things.”

  “But your son may. He witnessed the breakdown of the Door. He may be saying to himself, ‘What if the Door breaks down just as I’m half-way through?’ “

  “But that’s nonsense. He still uses the Door. He’s even been to Canton with me; Canton, China. And as I told you, he uses it for school about once or twice a week.”

  “Freely? Cheerfully?”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Hanshaw, reluctantly, “he does seem a bit put out by it. But really, Doctor, there isn’t much use talking about it, is there? If you would do a quick probe, see where the trouble was,” and she finished on a bright note, “why, that would be all. I’m sure it’s quite a minor thing.”

  Dr. Sloane sighed. He detested the word “probe” and there was scarcely any word he heard oftener.

  “Mrs. Hanshaw,” he said patiently, “there is no such thing as a quick probe. Now I know the mag-strips are full of it and it’s a rage in some circles, but it’s much overrated.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Quite. The probe is very complicated and the theory is that it traces mental circuits. You see, the cells of the brains are interconnected in a large variety of ways. Some of those interconnected paths are more used than others. They represent habits of thought, both conscious and unconscious. Theory has it that these paths in any given brain can be used to diagnose mental ills early and with certainty.”

  “Well, then?”

  “But subjection to the probe is quite a fearful thing, especially to a child. It’s a traumatic experience. It takes over an hour. And even then, the results must be sent to the Central Psychoanalytical Bureau for analysis, and that could take weeks. And on top of all that, Mrs. Hanshaw, there are many psychiatrists who think the theory of probe-analyses to be most uncertain.”

  Mrs. Hanshaw compressed her lips. “You mean nothing can be done.”

  Dr. Sloane smiled. “Not at all. There were psychiatrists for centuries before there were probes. I suggest that you let me talk to the boy.”

  “Talk to him? Is that all?”

  “I’ll come to you for background information when necessary, but the essential thing, I think, is to talk to the boy.”

  “Really, Dr. Sloane, I doubt if he’ll discuss the matter with you. He won’t talk to me about it and I’m his mother.”

  “That often happens,” the psychiatrist assured her. “A child will sometimes talk more readily to a stranger. In any case, I cannot take the case otherwise.”

  Mrs. Hanshaw rose, not at all pleased. “When can you come, Doctor?”

  “What about this coming Saturday? The boy won’t be in school. Will you be busy?”

  “We will be ready.”

  She made a dignified exit. Dr. Sloane accompanied her through the small reception room to his office Door and waited while she punched the co-ordinates of her house. He watched her pass through. She became a half-woman, a quarter-woman, an isolated elbow and foot, a nothing.

  It was frightening.

  Did a Door ever break down during passage, leaving half a body here and half there? He had never heard of such a case, but he imagined it could happen.

  He returned to his desk and looked up the time of his next appointment. It was obvious to him that Mrs. Hanshaw was annoyed and disappointed at not having arranged for a psychic probe treatment.

  Why, for God’s sake? Why should a thing like the probe, an obvious piece of quackery in his own opinion, get such a hold on the general public? It must be part of this general trend toward machines. Anything man can do, machines can do better. Machines! More machines! Machines for anything and everything! O temporal O mores!

  Oh, hell!

  His resentment of the probe was beginning to bother him. Was it a fear of technological unemployment, a basic insecurity on his part, a mechanophobia, if that was the word—

  He made a mental note to discuss this with his own analyst.

  * * * *

  Dr. Sloane had to feel his way. The boy wasn’t a patient who had come to him, more or less anxious to talk, more or less anxious to be helped.

  Under the circumstances it would have been best to keep his first meeting with Richard short and noncommittal. It would have been sufficient merely to establish himself as something less than a total stranger. The next time he would be someone Richard had seen before. The time after he would be an acquaintance, and after that a friend of the family.

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Hanshaw was not likely to accept a long-drawn-out process. She would go searching for a probe and, of course, she would find it.

  And harm the boy. He was certain of that.

  It was for that reason he felt he must sacrifice a little of the proper caution and risk a small crisis.

  An uncomfortable ten minutes had passed when he decided he must try. Mrs. Hanshaw was smiling in a rather rigid way, eyeing him narrowly, as though she expected verbal magic from him. Richard wriggled in his seat, unresponsive to Dr. Sloane’s tentative comments, overcome with boredom and unable not to show it.

  Dr. Sloane said, with casual suddenness, “Would you like to take a walk with me, Richard?”

  The boy’s eyes widened and he stopped wriggling. He looked directly at Dr. Sloane. “A walk, sir?”

  “I mean, outside.”

  “Do you go—outside?”

  “Sometimes. When I feel like it.”

&nbs
p; Richard was on his feet, holding down a squirming eagerness. “I didn’t think anyone did.”

  “I do. And I like company.”

  The boy sat down, uncertainly. “Mom?—”

  Mrs. Hanshaw had stiffened in her seat, her compressed lips radiating horror, but she managed to say, “Why certainly, Dickie. But watch yourself.”

  And she managed a quick and baleful glare at Dr. Sloane.

  * * * *

  In one respect, Dr. Sloane had lied. He did not go outside “sometimes.” He hadn’t been in the open since early college days. True, he had been athletically inclined (still was to some extent) but in his time the indoor ultra-violet chambers, swimming pools and tennis courts had flourished. For those with the price, they were much more satisfactory than the outdoor equivalents, open to the elements as they were, could possibly be. There was no occasion to go outside.

  So there was a crawling sensation about his skin when he felt wind touch it, and he put down his flexied shoes on bare grass with a gingerly movement.

  “Hey, look at that.” Richard was quite different now, laughing, his reserve broken down.

  Dr. Sloane had time only to catch a flash of blue that ended in a tree. Leaves rustled and he lost it.

  “What was it?”

  “A bird,” said Richard. “A blue kind of bird.”

  Dr. Sloane looked about him in amazement. The Hanshaw residence was on a rise of ground, and he could see for miles. The area was only lightly wooded and between clumps of trees, grass gleamed brightly in the sunlight.

  Colors set in deeper green made red and yellow patterns. They were flowers. From the books he had viewed in the course of his lifetime and from the old video shows, he had learned enough so that all this had an eerie sort of familiarity.

  And yet the grass was so trim, the flowers so patterned. Dimly, he realized he had been expecting something wilder. He said, “Who takes care of all this?”

  Richard shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe the mekkanos do it.”

  “Mekkanos?”

  “There’s loads of them around. Sometimes they got a sort of atomic knife they hold near the ground. It cuts the grass. And they’re always fooling around with the flowers and things. There’s one of them over there.”

  It was a small object, half a mile away. Its metal skin cast back highlights as it moved slowly over the gleaming meadow, engaged in some sort of activity that Dr. Sloane could not identify.

  Dr. Sloane was astonished. Here it was a perverse sort of estheticism, a kind of conspicuous consumption—

  “What’s that?” he asked suddenly.

  Richard looked. He said, “That’s a house. Belongs to the Froehlichs. Co-ordinates, A-3, 23, 461. That little pointy building over there is the public Door.”

  Dr. Sloane was staring at the house. Was that what it looked like from the outside? Somehow he had imagined something much more cubic, and taller.

  “Come along,” shouted Richard, running ahead.

  Dr. Sloane followed more sedately. “Do you know all the houses about here?”

  “Just about.”

  “Where is A-23, 26, 475?” It was his own house, of course.

  Richard looked about. “Let’s see. Oh, sure, I know where it is—you see that water there?”

  “Water?” Dr. Sloane made out a line of silver curving across the green.

  “Sure. Real water. Just sort of running over rocks and things. It keeps running all the time. You can get across it if you step on the rocks. It’s called a river.”

  More like a creek, thought Dr. Sloane. He had studied geography, of course, but what passed for the subject these days was really economic and cultural geography. Physical geography was almost an extinct science except among specialists. Still, he knew what rivers and creeks were, in a theoretical sort of way.

  Richard was still talking. “Well, just past the river, over that hill with the big clump of trees and down the other side a way is A-23, 26, 475. It’s a light green house with a white roof.”

  “It is?” Dr. Sloane was genuinely astonished. He hadn’t known it was green.

  Some small animal disturbed the grass in its anxiety to avoid the oncoming feet. Richard looked after it and shrugged. “You can’t catch them. I tried.”

  A butterfly flitted past, a wavering bit of yellow. Dr. Sloane’s eyes followed it.

  There was a low hum that lay over the fields, interspersed with an occasional harsh, calling sound, a rattle, a twittering, a chatter that rose, then fell. As his ear accustomed itself to listening, Dr. Sloane heard a thousand sounds, and none were man-made.

  A shadow fell upon the scene, advancing toward him, covering him. It was suddenly cooler and he looked upward, startled.

  Richard said, “It’s just a cloud. It’ll go away in a minute —looka these flowers. They’re the kind that smell.”

  They were several hundred yards from the Hanshaw residence. The cloud passed and the sun shone once more. Dr. Sloane looked back and was appalled at the distance they had covered. If they moved out of sight of the house and if Richard ran off, would he be able to find his way back?

  He pushed the thought away impatiently and looked out toward the line of water (nearer now) and past it to where his own house must be. He thought wonderingly: Light green?

  He said, “You must be quite an explorer.”

  Richard said, with a shy pride, “When I go to school and come back, I always try to use a different route and see new things.”

  “But you don’t go outside every morning, do you? Sometimes you use the Doors, I imagine.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Why is that, Richard?” Somehow, Dr. Sloane felt there might be significance in that point.

  But Richard quashed him. With his eyebrows up and a look of astonishment on his face, he said, “Well, gosh, some mornings it rains and I have to use the Door. I hate that, but what can you do? About two weeks ago, I got caught in the rain and I—” he looked about him automatically, and his voice sank to a whisper “—caught a cold, and wasn’t Mom upset, though.”

  Dr. Sloane sighed. “Shall we go back now?”

  There was a quick disappointment on Richard’s face. “Aw, what for?”

  “You remind me that your mother must be waiting for us.”

  “I guess so.” The boy turned reluctantly.

  They walked slowly back. Richard was saying, chattily, “I wrote a composition at school once about how if I could go on some ancient vehicle” (he pronounced it with exaggerated care) “I’d go in a stratoliner and look at stars and clouds and things. Oh, boy, I was sure nuts.”

  “You’d pick something else now?”

  “You bet. I’d go in an aut’m’bile, real slow. Then I’d see everything there was.”

  * * * *

  Mrs. Hanshaw seemed troubled, uncertain. “You don’t think it’s abnormal, then, doctor?”

  “Unusual, perhaps, but not abnormal. He likes the outside.”

  “But how can he? It’s so dirty, so unpleasant.”

  “That’s a matter of individual taste. A hundred years ago our ancestors were all outside most of the time. Even today, I dare say there are a million Africans who have never seen a Door.”

  “But Richard’s always been taught to behave himself the way a decent person in District A-3 is supposed to behave,” said Mrs. Hanshaw, fiercely. “Not like an African or— or an ancestor.”

  “That may be part of the trouble, Mrs. Hanshaw. He feels this urge to go outside and yet he feels it to be wrong. He’s ashamed to talk about it to you or to his teacher. It forces him into sullen retreat and it could eventually be dangerous.”

  “Then how can we persuade him to stop?”

  Dr. Sloane said, “Don’t try. Channel the activity instead. The day your Door broke down, he was forced outside, found he liked it, and that set a pattern. He used the trip to school and back as an excuse to repeat that first exciting experience. Now suppose you agree to let him out of the house for two hours on Satu
rdays and Sundays. Suppose he gets it through his head that after all he can go outside without necessarily having to go anywhere in the process. Don’t you think he’ll be willing to use the Door to go to school and back thereafter? And don’t you think that will stop the trouble he’s now having with his teacher and probably with his fellow-pupils?”

  “But then will matters remain so? Must they? Won’t he ever be normal again?”

  Dr. Sloane rose to his feet. “Mrs. Hanshaw, he’s as normal as need be right now. Right now, he’s tasting the joys of the forbidden. If you co-operate with him, show that you don’t disapprove, it will lose some of its attraction right there. Then, as he grows older, he will become more aware of the expectations and demands of society. He will learn to conform. After all, there is a little of the rebel in all of us, but it generally dies down as we grow old and tired. Unless, that is, it is unreasonably suppressed and allowed to build up pressure. Don’t do that. Richard will be all right.”