“How so?”
“Most of them seemed to be mental cases. It looks like a third of them or so were in and out of mental hospitals at one time or another. Several ended up bums or were in VA hospitals when they were ‘eliminated.’ But a lot of them, including some of the ones I just mentioned, did a lot of stuff. This woman was a famous psychic in England. I remember her getting killed—bunch of snide people asking, why couldn’t she predict her own death? And this other guy won a Silver Star at Okinawa—that’s a big military decoration and a big war.”
“I think I have the counterpoint of your list.” Jean-Pierre held up another sheaf. “People killed here in the fair world in the last twenty years. Of course, this list was made on a proper typewriter.
“Here’s one I’ve heard of. A woman doctor. Patented several processes, some of which didn’t work. One that did, insulin from pigs, made her rich about ten years ago. I always wanted to know what sort of stupid name Stevens is.”
“It’s a very common name on my world.”
“Well, you have stupid names—” Jean-Pierre shut up for a moment. “Is Salvanelli a common name on your world?”
“I don’t think so. It sounds Italian, but I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”
“It’s Isperian. Very common. There are thousands of Salvanellis, immigrants, in Neckerdam.”
“Well, there’s no mistake. This shows them eliminating him in New York City.”
“And Stevens in Nyrax.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yes. There were other people from the grim world on the fair world . . . and the Changeling has been systematically tracking them down and killing them.”
“And Duncan doing the same on my world . . . to people from your world. Why?”
Jean-Pierre shrugged. “I don’t know, but I wager Doc will be fascinated. By the way, your name and Gabriela’s are the last additions at the bottom of this list.”
“Oh, great.”
Jean-Pierre yawned and stretched. “In case you haven’t noticed, the sun is well up.”
He was right. Round patches of sunlight wandered around the cabin floor with every movement of the airplane.
“Yeah. So?”
“So after I tell Doc about this, I’m to bed. How long have you been awake?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sleepy.”
“Get some sleep anyway.” Jean-Pierre rose and went forward.
Harris continued looking through the papers.
The dead man on the concrete finally moved, lifting his head to stare at Harris. There was hurt sorrow in his eyes. He pointed at Harris. His expression didn’t say “I hate you,” even “I blame you.” Harris read it as though it were newsprint: “You can never fix this.”
Harris gasped and came fully awake. The light over his bunk was still on. The fan still drove air into his face. It smelled like sausage cooking; someone had to be back in the galley, rustling up breakfast.
He lay there and rubbed his eyes. He’d fallen asleep for a moment. He needed to sleep. He was so tired that sometimes he couldn’t tell the engines throbbing from the waves of tiredness flowing through him. But the face was waiting for him. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw the dead man staring sightlessly upward.
Harris kept his own eyes open.
His thoughts floated around unconnected. He might have shot them, wonder what a hot dog costs, if I drank a gallon of xioc I might not sleep for a week, blasting through the sky in the belly of a giant frog. Grow up Gaby doesn’t want you anymore. He’s waiting for you behind your eyelids. Transitions, he’ll get you when you move in or out, in the transitions.
He felt the idea click home like the last piece in a jigsaw puzzle. He sat up so fast he banged his head on the ceiling of the bunk. He cursed, hit the wood in anger, and swung out of the bunk. Almost falling, he landed on the slightly tilted floor.
Wearing only boxer shorts, he moved forward out of the darkened sleeper-cabin into the lounge. It was empty of people; the circles of light moving around on the floor were brighter than ever. He stayed well away from them, irrationally afraid that he’d crumble into dust if they fell on him. He flopped onto the sofa in front of the talk-box. “Gabrielle,” he said.
The gray, lifeless screen of the talk-box stared implacably back at him. Annoyed, he switched it on. The screen slowly brightened into static.
“Gabrielle, I hope you can hear me. I think you can.” Harris licked suddenly dry lips. “I’m in the plane with Doc. This is Harris. I’m the one who knows something about you.”
Nothing.
“Gabrielle, I don’t care how stupid this looks. I think you can hear me. Please talk to me.”
The screen wavered into focus and suddenly Gabrielle stared at him. She was her usual solemn self, and looked worried when she saw him. “You look bad,” she said.
“No sleep.”
“No one has ever called to me before.”
“They always used the talk-box operator to reach one another. I bet the operator doesn’t know where to find you.”
She looked puzzled. “No.”
“Gabrielle, can you tell me what you’re seeing right now?”
“You.”
He shook his head impatiently. He regretted it; his head swam. “I mean, around you. What you’re looking into, what you’re sitting behind, everything.”
“My mirror.”
“You’re looking into a mirror. Who’s the fairest of them all?” He giggled, then cut the laugh off when he realized how strange it sounded. “How did you know I wanted to talk to you?”
“I heard you call my name. I hear talking all the time. That’s how I learned about Doc. I heard his name many times. People spoke of him in terms of praise. Excitement. Anger. Sometimes they made plans to hurt him. Finally I looked for him and found him.”
“How do you do that?”
“I make eyes on the other side of the mirror open up. Just as I did a moment ago with you.” Her expression was so vulnerable, so helplessly open that Harris wanted to crawl through the screen to comfort her.
“A while back, you started to ask me what I knew about you. I didn’t understand that then. It’s because you don’t know anything about yourself, do you?”
She didn’t answer, as if by waiting she could make him lose interest in the question.
“Gabrielle, would you show me your horse?”
Her expression went from worried to completely lost. “How do you know about my horse? I’ve never shown it to anyone.”
“I know it has eight legs. Show it to me.”
She didn’t seem to be able to tear her gaze away from Harris. But she reached out of sight under the table and brought up a stuffed toy, a big, cuddly red pony with too many legs. She clutched it to her as though it could shield her from the world.
“What do you know about yourself?”
She flinched as though he’d raised a hand to strike her. “You’re right. I don’t know anything. I’ve been here a long time. I can’t get out. No one comes to visit. Maybe I was born here. I never saw anyone until I made the eye behind the mirror open up the first time.”
“Gabrielle, if I leave the room for a minute, will you wait here for me?”
“Maybe.”
“Please. It’s really important.”
She crushed the doll to her and gave him a tentative nod.
He managed to get to his feet and stumble forward out of the lounge. A few steps more and he was beside the bunk where he’d seen Gaby toss her bag. He parted the curtain.
She was there, tousled, adorable, wearing a long-sleeved green shirt that came to her knees. Her mouth was slightly open and her eyes moved back and forth behind her eyelids. He knew it would take a sudden invasion by a marching band to wake her up from this state.