The morning’s mist had cleared, and now the remnants thickened into clouds defining the boundaries of different air masses. She pulled the burner control and sent the balloon up another several hundred feet. Up here somewhere she should find a current angling in from the approaching low pressure . . . over there where the clouds thickened into murk.
Ronnie craned his head to look over the guardhouse at the first of the balloons. Of course it wasn’t time for Brun’s yet . . . He looked at the guard, who smirked at him.
“Festival of the Air . . . you like it, sir?”
Ronnie allowed himself to look abashed. He had practiced the expression for two days now. “I know it’s childish, but—it’s always been my favorite seasonal festival. If I hadn’t had to come visiting today, I could’ve been up there too . . . not that I don’t love my Aunt Cecelia, of course.” He put on what he hoped was a contrite but haughty look. The man nodded.
“A bit dull, visiting elderly relatives. They tell you all about their childhoods—”
“Well . . . not my aunt,” Ronnie said. He was sure the man knew already; he had to assume that. “She . . . she can’t speak, actually. She had a stroke.”
“Ah.” The man nodded again. “Sorry to hear that, sir. Makes it harder to visit, I expect. Although perhaps she can hear you, give some sign that she knows you’re there?”
Ronnie felt cold. He wanted to smash the man’s head on the ground. Instead, he shook his own head. “No . . . they say not. She’s just a vegetable, just lying there. But Mother says . . . I mean, I would come anyway, she’s my aunt, but . . .”
“But not today, if you didn’t have to? No shame in that, sir; at least you came. It speaks well of your family.”
Ronnie nodded without speaking as the man held out a stamped visitor’s pass. He could feel the man’s eyes watching his back as he walked up the beautifully landscaped lawn. Could the man tell that he had something under his clothes? In his pockets? He glanced up, and walked on with his head thrown back as if he could not resist watching the balloonists.
As required, he checked in at the main desk, where he was told his aunt’s room number—the same as always, he was relieved to note. Her condition was unchanged, the receptionist said; he would please observe the rules of the facility, including . . . His mind tuned the voice out. He could have recited them by heart. No smoking, no alcohol, no eating in the room, no tampering with equipment or medication. He was free to use the toilet, or drink from the water fountain; if he required something else, he could ring for an attendant. He could stay two hours, but he would have to leave immediately if his aunt required active medical treatment. He nodded, as always, and exchanged his entrance pass for a unit pass that gave him access only to his aunt’s treatment unit. The receptionist, safe behind her counter, hardly looked at him except for a quick glance at his face.
“And no flowers,” the receptionist said to his departing back.
Sometimes they offered an escort; if they were busy, they didn’t. This time no staff member came to check on him, and he strode along a neat stone pathway edged with flowers, free to think without interruption.
If they failed, his aunt would die. He was sure of that—either they made a clean getaway, or whoever had done this would kill her. Or you, his mind said suddenly, forcing on him an image of himself in Cecelia’s state. He shuddered; sweat ran cold down his back. He saw, without registering them, other people walking on other paths: family members of other patients, staff in the cheerful, bright coveralls they wore. The treatment units, low stone-faced buildings scattered among trees and lawns and flowerbeds, looked like expensive apartments. The path led him around one, then another. He saw a terrace outside one, with someone in a hoverchair talking to two people in normal clothes. Off to one side, on a smooth stretch of lawn, a patient struggled to walk from a hoverchair to a picnic table spread with food.
At last he came to the final row of buildings, to Cecelia’s treatment unit. Like the others, it was stone-faced and low, with a covered terrace on this side. The terrace on the far side had no roof; that should make it easier. He put his card in the door, which slid open. Inside, the expected staff member, this time the gray-haired man in yellow, who checked his pass, his ID, and reminded him again of the rules.
“She’s having a good day,” the man said with a wide smile. “And I’ve just finished toileting and bathing her; she’s all fresh and sweet for you.” Ronnie wanted to gag, but managed to thank the man. “If she could see,” the man went on, “she’d have a perfect view of the Festival . . . at least you can enjoy it.”
Ronnie wondered whether a fake sulk or a pretense of boredom would be better. “I wish I could,” he said, letting his anger edge that. “If I hadn’t—I mean—my regiment’s got a contestant up.”
“Ah—balloon or glider?”
“Both, of course.” Ronnie pulled himself up and tried for pompous. It had been easy last year, when he still thought the regiment’s place in the air races mattered.
“Well, you can see them through her window . . . or, if you wish, open the sliding door onto the west terrace. It won’t bother her.” Again, that faint cynical edge.
Ronnie shook his head. “I’d better not. If Mother found out I was neglecting Aunt Cecelia to look at the Festival, she’d skin me.”
The man laughed. “I won’t tell. Go ahead.”
“I think she gets the tapes or something; she knew last week when I read for half an hour.” He had read for half an hour, setting up this situation; his mother hadn’t mentioned it, but he was sure tapes were being made, and someone at this level shouldn’t know how many people got copies.
Now the man looked uneasy. “Oh . . . ah . . . that’s easy to arrange. I can put it on a loop, for . . .”
Ronnie took the bait. “Would you? I’d be terribly grateful. It can’t matter to Aunt Cecelia; you’re all very tactful about it, but the doctor said her brain was gone. And if I have to spend all today cooped up in here, just looking at her and pretending to talk to her—” He held out his credit chip. “I’d like to buy a fruit punch, too . . .” The man fed the chip into the unit reader, flicking the buttons, and handed it back to Ronnie when it popped free. The cash—how much Ronnie couldn’t tell—never actually changed hands.
“What you do,” the man said, “is go in there and act normal for about ten minutes. Don’t just sit stilclass="underline" pour some water, touch her hand, sit down, stand up, talk to her softly. Then come out, and go to the toilet; I’ll loop the tape at that point and only an expert will know you’re just repeating things for the rest of your visit. See this button? Push it when you leave, and it’ll put the tape back to realtime.”
“Thanks,” Ronnie said. He had no idea if the man was honest, or honestly dishonest, but it was worth a try.
He went in and for ten minutes that felt like ten years acted like a bumbling, nervous, miserable nephew . . . as near as he could, the same he’d acted in all his visits. The bed’s automatic movements still made him nervous; it looked and sounded as if some animal were rolling and twisting under the covers. He stroked Cecelia’s cool, dry brow, and her thin, wrinkled, flaccid hands; he murmured to her, then turned away to wipe his eyes and pour himself a glass of water. Finally he left, and went into the toilet in the outer room. When he came out, the man in yellow stood by the outside door, gave him a final thumbs-up, and left.
Ronnie went back to Cecelia and sat there a little longer before letting himself look outside. Behind Cecelia’s unit, the clinic land ran down to the river, a meadow mowed just too high for comfortable walking. He could see four or five balloons from inside the room, one quite low . . . but it was the wrong color. A parasail slid across, a long low glide that ended with a landing at the far end of the meadow. Ronnie gave Cecelia a kiss on the brow, and then walked over and opened the glass door to the terrace.