He slipped a small aerosol into his side pocket, then rose and crossed the office.
He opened the door and looked out.
"Doctor ....elp..."
Render took three steps, then dropped to one knee.
"What's the matter?"
"Come, she is ... sick," he growled.
"Sick? How? What's wrong?"
"Don't know. You come."
Render stared into the unhuman eyes.
"What kind of sick?" he insisted.
"Don't know," repeated the dog. "Won't talk. Sits. I ... feel, she is sick."
"How did you get here?"
"Drove. Know the co, or, din, ates... Left car, outside."
"I'll call her right now." Render turned.
"No good. Won't answer."
He was right.
Render returned to his inner office for his coat and med-kit. He glanced out the window and saw where her car was parked, far below, just inside the entrance to the marginal, where the monitor had released it into manual control. If no one assumed that control a car was automatically parked in neutral. The other vehicles were passed around it.
So simple even a dog can drive one, he reflected. Better get downstairs before a cruiser comes along. It's probably reported itself stopped there already. Maybe not, though. Might still have a few minutes grace.
He glanced at the huge clock.
"Okay, Sig," he called out. "Let's go."
They took the lift to the ground floor, left by way of the front entrance and hurried to the car.
Its engine was still idling.
Render opened the passenger door and Sigmund leapt in. He squeezed by him into the driver's seat then, but the dog
was already pushing the primary coordinates and the address tabs with his paw.
Looks like I'm in the wrong seat.
He lit a cigarette as the car swept ahead into a U-under-pass. It emerged on the opposite marginal, sat poised a moment, then joined the traffic flow. The dog directed the car into the high-acceleration lane.
"Oh," said the dog, "oh."
Render felt like patting his head at that moment, but he looked at him, saw that his teeth were bared, and decided against it.
"When did she start acting peculiar?" he asked.
"Came home from work. Did not eat. Would not answer me, when I talked. Just sits."
"Has she ever been like this before?"
"No."
What could have precipitated it?—But maybe she just had a bad day. After all, he's only a dog—sort of.—No. He'd know. But what, then?
"How was she yesterday—and when she left home this morning?"
"Like always."
Render tried calling her again. There was still no answer.
"You, did, it," said the dog.
"What do you mean?"
"Eyes. Seeing. You. Machine. Bad."
"No," said Render, and his hand rested on the unit of stun-spray in his pocket.
"Yes," said the dog, turning to him again. "You will, make her well...?"
"Of course," said Render.
Sigmund stared ahead again.
Render felt physically exhilarated and mentally sluggish. He sought the confusion factor. He had had these feelings about the case since that first session. There was something very unsettling about Eileen Shallot: a combination of high intelligence and helplessness, of determination and vulnerability, of sensitivity and bitterness.
Do I find that especially attractive?—No. It's just the counter-transference, damn it!
"You smell afraid," said the dog.
"Then color me afraid," said Render, "and turn the page."
They slowed for a series of turns, picked up speed again, slowed again, picked up speed again. Finally, they were traveling along a narrow section of roadway through a semi-residential area of town. The car turned up a side street, proceeded about half a mile further, clicked softly beneath its dashboard, and turned into the parking lot behind a high brick apartment building. The click must have been a special servomech which took over from the point where the monitor released it, because the car crawled across the lot, headed into its transparent parking stall, then stopped. Render turned off the ignition.
Sigmund had already opened the door on his side. Render followed him into the building, and they rode the elevator to the fiftieth floor. The dog dashed on ahead up the hallway, pressed his nose against a plate set low in a doorframe, and waited. After a moment, the door swung several inches inward. He pushed it open with his shoulder and entered. Render followed, closing the door behind him.
The apartment was large, its walls pretty much unadorned, its color combinations unnerving. A great library of tapes filled one corner; a monstrous combination-broadcaster stood beside it. There was a wide bowlegged table set in front of the window, and a low couch along the right-hand wall; there was a closed door beside the couch; an archway to the left apparently led to other rooms. Eileen sat in an overstuffed chair in the far corner by the window. Sigmund stood beside the chair.
Render crossed the room and extracted a cigarette from his case. Snapping open his lighter, he held the flame until her head turned in that direction.
"Cigarette?" he asked.
"Charles?"
"Right."
"Yes, thank you. I will."
She held out her hand, accepted the cigarette, put it to her lips.
"Thanks.—What are you doing here?"
"Social call. I happened to be in the neighborhood."
"I didn't hear a buzz, or a knock."
"You must have been dozing. Sig let me in."
"Yes, I must have." She stretched. "What time is it?"
"It's close to four-thirty."
"I've been home over two hours then... Must have been very tired ..."
"How do you feel now?"
"Fine," she declared. "Care for a cup of coffee?"
"Don't mind if I do."
"A steak to go with it?"
"No thanks."
"Bicardi in the coffee?"
"Sounds good."
"Excuse me then. It'll only take a moment."
She went through the door beside the sofa and Render caught a glimpse of a large, shiny, automatic kitchen.
"Well?" he whispered to the dog.
Sigmund shook his head.
"Not same."
Render shook his head.
He deposited his coat on the sofa, folding it carefully about the medkit. He sat beside it and thought.
Did I throw too big a chunk of seeing at once? Is she suffering from depressive side-effects—say, memory repressions, nervous fatigue? Did I upset her sensory adaptation syndrome somehow? Why have I been proceeding so rapidly anyway? There's no real hurry. Am I so damned eager to write the thing up?—Or am I doing it because she wants me to? Could she be that strong, consciously or unconsciously? Or am I that vulnerable—somehow?
She called him to the kitchen to carry out the tray. He set it on the table and seated himself across from her.
"Good coffee," he said, burning his lips on the cup.
"Smart machine," she stated, facing his voice.
Sigmund stretched out on the carpet next to the table, lowered his head between his forepaws, sighed, and closed his eyes.
"I've been wondering," said Render, "whether or not there were any aftereffects to that last session—like increased synesthesiac experiences, or dreams involving forms, or hallucinations or..."
"Yes," she said flatly, "dreams."
"What kind?"
"That last session. I've dreamt it over, and over."
"Beginning to end?"
"No, there's no special order to the events. We're riding through the city, or over the bridge, or sitting at the table, or walking toward the car—just flashes like that. Vivid ones."
"What sort of feelings accompany these—flashes?"
"I don't know. They're all mixed up."