She watched him, her lips forming a sort of half smile (note the natural gloss on the lips, she never painted, never had to, lips always just slightly moist, partly open, the tongue playing gentle love games with the teeth), unsure of what was happening.
"Link?" she said. "Link, don't you have a smile for Mother?"
And Link tried to remember how to smile. What did it feel like? There were muscles that must be pulled, and his face should feel tight--
"No!" she screamed, stepping back from him and encountering the closed door. She apparently had expected it to be open-- as if this were not a mental hospital and patients were free to roam the corridors at will. She whirled and hammered on the door with her fists, shouting frantically, "Let me out of here!"
They lot her out, the tall men with the pleasant smiles who also took Link to the bathroom five times a day because somehow he had forgotten to notice when he needed to. And as the door closed behind her, Link still stood, unable to decide what he should do, and wondering why his hands were stretched out in front of him, the hands set to grip something circular, something vertical and cylindrical, something, perhaps, the shape of a human throat.
In Doctor Hort's office, Mrs. Danol sat, poised and beautiful, distractingly so, and Hort wondered whether this was indeed the same woman who had wept in the attendants' arms only a few minutes before.
"All I care about is my son," she said. "He was gone, vanished for seven terrible, terrible months, and all I know now is that I've found him again and I want him home. With me!"
Hort sighed. "Mrs. Danol, Linkeree is criminally insane. This is a govemment facility, remember? He murdered a girl."
"She probably deserved it."
"She had supported him and cared for him for seven months, Mrs. Danol."
"She probably seduced him."
"They had a very active sex life, in which both were eager participants."
Mrs. Danol looked horrified. "Did my son tell you that?"
"No, the tenants downstairs told the police that."
"Hearsay, then."
"The government has a very limited budget on ths planet, Mrs. Danol. Most people live in apartments where privacy is strictly impossible."
And Mrs. Danol shuddered, apparently in disgust at the plight of the poor wretches that huddled in the government compound in this benighted capital of this benighted colony.
"I wish I could leave here," she said.
"It would have been nice at one time," Hort answered. "Your son hates this world. Or, rather, more particularly, he hates what he has seen of this world."
"Well, I can understand that. Those hideous wild people-- and the people in the city aren't much better."
Hort was amused at her reverse democracy-- she esteemed all persons her infinite inferiors, and therefore equal to each other. "Nevertheless, now Linkeree must stay here and we must attempt a cure."
"Oh, that's all I want for my boy. For him to be the sweet, loving child he used to be-- I can't believe he really killed her!"
"There were seventeen witnesses to the strangling, two of them hospitalized when he turned on them after they pried him away from the corpse. He definitely killed her."
"But why," she said emotionally, her breasts heaving with passion in a way that amused Hort-- he had known many such closet exhibitionists in his time. "Why would he kill her?"
"Because, Mrs. Danol, except for hair color and several years of age, she looked almost exactly like you."
Mrs. Danol sat upright. "My God, Doctor, you're joking!"
"Almost the only thing that Link has been consistent about since he arrived here is his firm belief that it was you that he killed."
"This is hideous. This is repulsive."
"Sometimes he weeps and says he's sorry, that he'll never do it again. Most of the time, however, he cackles rather gleefully about it, as if it were a game that he had, after many losses, finally won."
"Is this what passes for psychology on this godforsaken planet?"
"This is what passes for psychology on Capitol itself, Mrs. Danol. That is, you recall, where I got my degree. I assure you I have invented nothing." And dammit, he thought, why am I letting this woman put me on the defensive? "We thought that the fact of seeing you alive might have some effect on your son."
"He did try to strangle me."
"So you said. You also said you wanted him to come home with you. Is that really consistent?"
"I want you to cure him and send him home. Since his father died, whom else have I had to love?"
Yourself, Holt refrained from saying. My, but I'm getting judgmental.
The buzzer sounded and, relieved at the interruption, Holt pressed the pad that freed the door. It was Gram, the head nurse. He looked upset.
"It was time for Linkeree's toilet," he said, beginning, as usual, in the middle, "and he wasn't there. We've looked everywhere. He's not in the building."
Mrs. Danol gasped. "Not in the building!"
Holt said, "She's his mother," and Gram went on. "He climbed through the ceiling tiles and out the air conditioning system. We had no idea he was that strong."
"Oh, what a fine hospital!"
Holt was irritated. "Mrs. Danol, the quality of this hospital as a hospital is indisputably excellent. The quality of this hospital as a prison is woefully deficient. Take it up with the government." Defensive again, dammit. And the bitch is still throwing her chest at me. I'm beginning to understand Linkeree, I think. "Mrs. Danol, please wait here."
"No."
"Then go home. But I assure you you'll be entirely in the way while we search for your son."
She glared at him and stood her ground.
He merely nodded. "As you will," he said, and picked up the door control from the desk, carried it with him out of the room, and slid the door shut in Mrs. Danol's face as she tried to follow lit got an altogether unhealthy feeling of satisfaction at having done so.
"Wouldn't mind strangling her myself," he said to Gram, who missed the point and looked a bit worried. "A joke, Gram. I'm not getting homicidal. Where did the fellow go?"
Gram had no answer, and so they went outside to see.
Linkeree huddled against the fence of the government compound, the miles of heavy metal fencing that separated civilization from the rest of the world. The evening wind was already blowing in from the thick grass and rolling hills of the plain that gave the planet its name, Pampas. The sun was still two fingers off the horizon, however, and Linkeree knew that he was plainly visible from miles away. Visible both to the government people who would surely be looking for him; but also visible to the Vaqs, who he knew waited just over the hill, waiting for a child like him to wander out to be eaten.
No, he thought. I'm not a child.
He looked at his hands. They were large, strong-- and yet unweathered, as sensitive and delicate as an artist's hands.
"You should be an artist," he heard Zad saying.
"Me?" Link answered, softly, a little amused at the suggestion.
"Yes, you," she said. "Look at this," and her hand swept around the room, and because he could not avoid following her hand, he also saw: Tapestries on tapestries on one wall, waiting to be sold. Another wall devoted to thick rugs and the huge loom that Zad used for her work. And another wall windowed ceiling to floor (glass is cheap, someone told the government architect), showing the shabbily identical government housing project in which most of the capital's people lived, and beyond them the Government Office Building from which the lives of thousands of people were run. Millions, if you counted the Vaqs. But no one counted them.