The T'ang took the folder from him and opened it. Inside was a single ultra-thin sheet of what seemed like pure black plastic. He turned it in his hands and then laughed. "What is it?"
"Here." Shepherd indicated a viewer on the table by the window, then drew the blind down. "Lay it in the tray there, then flick that switch."
Li Shai Tung placed the sheet down in the viewer. "Does it matter which way up?"
"Yes and no. You'll see."
The T'ang flicked the switch. At once the tanklike cage of the viewer was filled with color. It was a hologram. A portrait of Hal Shepherd's wife, Beth.
"He did this?"
Shepherd nodded. "There are one hundred and eighty cross-sectional layers of information. Ninety horizontal, ninety vertical. He handdrew each sheet and then compressed them. It's his own technique. He invented it."
"Hand-drew . . . ?"
"And from memory. Beth wouldn't sit for him, you see. She said she was too busy. But he did it anyway."
Li Shai Tung shook his head slowly. "It's astonishing, Hal. It's like a camera image of her."
"You haven't seen the half of it. Wait. . . ." Shepherd switched the hologram off, then reached in and lifted the flexible plate up. He turned it and set it down again. "Please. . . ."
The Tang reached out and pressed the switch. Again the viewing cage was filled with color. But this time the image was different.
The hologram of Hal Shepherd was far from flattering. The flesh was far cruder, much rougher, than the reality, the cheeks ruddier. The hair was thicker, curlier, the eyebrows heavier and darker. The nose was thick and fleshy, the ears pointed, the eyes larger, darker. The lips were more sensuous than the original, almost licentious. They seemed to sneer.
Shepherd moved closer and looked down into the viewer. "There's something of the satyr about it. Something elemental."
The T'ang turned his head and looked at him, not understanding the allusion.
Shepherd laughed. "It was a Greek thing, Shai Tung. In their mythology satyrs were elementary spirits of the mountains and the forests. Part goat, part man. Cloven hooved, thickly haired, sensual, and lascivious."
Li Shai Tung stared at the urbane, highly sophisticated man standing at his side and laughed briefly, bemused that Shepherd could see himself in that brutal portrait. "I can see a slight likeness. Something in the eyes, the shape of the head, but. . ."
Shepherd shook his head slowly. He was staring at the hologram intently. "No. Look at it, Shai Tung. Look hard at it. He sees me clearly. My inner self."
Li Shai Tung shivered. "The gods help us that our sons should see us thus!"
Shepherd turned and looked at him. "Why? Why should we fear that, old friend? We know what we are. Men. Part mind, part animal. Why should we be afraid of that?"
The T'ang pointed to the -image. "Men, yes. But men like that? You really see yourself in such an image, Hal?"
Shepherd smiled. "It's not the all of me, I know, but it's a part. An important part."
Li Shai Tung shrugged—the slightest movement of his shoulders—then looked back at the image. "But why is the other as it is? Why aren't both alike?"
"Ben has a wicked sense of humor."
Again the T'ang did not understand, but this time Shepherd made no attempt to enlighten him.
Li Shai Tung studied the hologram a moment longer, then turned from it, looking all about him. "He gets such talent from you, Hal."
Shepherd shook his head. "I never had a tenth his talent. Anyway, even the word talent is unsatisfactory. What he has is genius. In that he's like his great-grandfather."
The T'ang smiled at that, remembering his father's tales of Augustus Shepherd's eccentricity. "Perhaps. But let us hope that that is all he has inherited."
He knew at once that he had said the wrong thing. Or, if not the wrong thing, then something which touched upon a sensitive area.
"The resemblance is more than casual."
The T'ang lowered his head slightly, willing to drop the matter at once, but Shepherd seemed anxious to explain. "Ben's schizophrenic, too, you see. Oh, nothing as bad as Augustus. But it creates certain incongruities in his character."
Li Shai Tung looked back at the pictures above the bed with new understanding. "But from what you've said the boy is healthy enough."
"Even happy, I'd say. Most of the time. He has bouts of it, you understand. Then we either dose him up heavily or leave him alone."
Shepherd leaned across and switched off the viewer, then lifted the thin black sheet and slipped it back into the folder. "They used to think schizophrenia was a simple malfunction of the brain; an imbalance in certain chemicals—dopamine, glu-tamic acid, and gamma amino butyric acid. Drugs like Largactil, Modecate, Disipal, Priadel, and Haloperidol were used, mainly as tranquilizers. But they simply kept the thing in check and had the side effect of enlarging the dopamine system. Worst of all, at least as far as Ben is concerned, they damp down the creative faculty."
The T'ang frowned. Medicine, like all else, was based on traditional Han ways. The development of Western drugs, like Western ideas of progress, had been abandoned when Tsao Ch'un had built his City. Many such drugs were, in fact, illicit now. One heard of them, normally, only in the context of addiction—something that was rife in the lowest levels of the City. Nowadays all serious conditions were diagnosed before the child was born and steps taken either to correct them or to abort the fetus. It thus surprised him, first to hear that Ben's illness had not been diagnosed beforehand, second that he had even considered taking drugs to keep the illness in check.
"He has not taken these drugs, I hope."
Shepherd met his eyes. "Not only has but still does. Except when he's working."
The T'ang signed deeply. "You should have told me, Hal. I shall arrange for my herbalist to call on Ben within the next few days."
Shepherd shook his head. "I thank you, Shai Tung. Your kindness touches me. But it would do no good."
"No good?" The T'ang frowned, puzzled. "But there are numerous sedatives—things to calm the spirit and restore the body's yin'yang balance. Good, healthy remedies, not these . . . drugs!"
"I know, Shai Tung, and again I thank you for your concern. But Ben would have none of it. Oh, I can see him now— Dragon bones and oyster sheUs! he'd say scornfully, What good are they against this affliction!"
The T'ang looked down, disturbed. In this matter he could not insist. The birthright of the Shepherds made them immune from the laws that governed others. If Ben took drugs to maintain his mental stability there was little he, Li Shai Tung, could do about it. Even so, he could not stop himself from feeling it was wrong. He changed the subject.
"Is he a good son, Hal?"
Shepherd laughed. "He is the best of sons, Shai Tung. Like Li Yuan, his respect is not a matter of rote, as it is with some of this new generation, but a deep-rooted thing. And as you've seen, it stems from a thorough knowledge of his father."
The T'ang nodded, leaving his doubts unexpressed. "Good. But you are right, Hal. These past few years have seen a sharp decline in morality. The Ji—the rites—they mean little now. The young mouth the old words but they mean nothing by them. Their respect is an empty shell. We are fortunate, you and I, that we have good sons."
"Indeed. Though Ben can be a pompous, intolerant little sod at times. He has no time for fools. And little enough for cleverness, if you see what I mean. He loathes his machine-tutor, for instance."
Li Shai Tung raised his eyebrows. "That surprises me, Hal. I would have thought he cherished knowledge. All this"—he looked about him at the books and paintings and machines—"it speaks of a love of knowledge."
Shepherd smiled strangely. "Perhaps you should talk to him yourself, Shai Tung."
The T'ang smiled. "Perhaps I should."