The Mind Pool

Chapter 8

Esro Mondrian had puzzled over the directions before he tried to follow them. They were far from the usual Fropper territory. He had been sent meandering through an endless series of descent shafts, to the deepest basement levels of the Gallimaufries. So far down in the Earth’s crust, continuous cooling was needed to make the levels even marginally habitable, and only the power maintenance crews visited on a regular basis. It seemed inconceivable that any successful Fropper would have an office down in these smoking warrens. But the directions had been detailed and specific.

The final hundred meters of his journey were in near-total darkness, stepping carefully along a steadily descending shallow ramp. At the foot, the gloom closed in to become absolute. Mondrian paused to unsnap a miniature flashlight from his belt.

“No lights, please,” said a soft voice from a few yards in front of him. “Take hold, Commander Mondrian, and follow me.”

“You are Skrynol?”

“I am.” A warm, fleshy flipper gripped Mondrian’s fingers. He walked, step by slow step, led by the Fropper in front of him. Finally he was guided to a seat covered by warm, velvety material.

“Sit there, Commander. And relax.”

“You have to be joking. Could you relax, in my situation? I’ve been to a lot of Froppers before, but I’ve never had to put up with anything like this. Why the darkness? I’d like at least a little light.”

“That desire is understandable. But it is not a good idea. I work far more effectively in total darkness. And with light, you might feel far less relaxed.”

“I don’t care what you look like. I don’t expect a Fropper to win beauty contests.”

“How true. But there are limits. Not every product of a Needler lab is a work of art in aesthetic terms.”

Mondrian peered into the darkness. “Are you telling me you’re an Artefact?”

“I do seem to be saying that, don’t I?” There was a trill of laughter from somewhere above and in front of Mondrian. “Does that give you a problem?”

“I didn’t know Artefacts could be Froppers.”

“If you doubt my capabilities, I can refer you to others who will provide excellent testimonials. And from my initial assessment of your mental condition, the Froppers you have visited in the past have done little for you. Could an Artefact do worse?”

Mondrian leaned back again in his seat. “I can’t argue with that. The others I’ve seen have done nothing for me. How can you say you’ve assessed my mental condition when I’ve only been here for two minutes?”

“You are asking me to reveal the secrets of my profession. I will not do so. But if you require proof that I can do what I say, you shall have an example. Sit quietly, relax as much as possible, and let your thoughts wander where they wish. I am going to attach a few electrodes.” Cold touches came on Mondrian’s forehead, hands, and neck. “And now, a few moments of silence.”

The temperature in the room was far too hot for comfort. Mondrian sat, sweating heavily, and tried to follow the Fropper’s order to relax. What form could possibly be so horrible that the sight of it was worse than this oppressive and stifling darkness? His eyes should be totally adjusted by now, but he could see nothing. Was he wasting his time, on yet another unproductive visit to a Fropper? There had to be a reason why Froppers were banned, everywhere except on Earth.

“I have enough.” Skrynol’s voice came suddenly out of the darkness. “Remember, I cannot read your thoughts, and I will never claim to do so. But I can read your body, and they tell me more about what you are thinking than you may be prepared to believe. For example, let me read back to you a few of the more obvious and familiar indicators. Your pupils are somewhat dilated — yes, part of that is certainly due to the dark; but not all of it. And yes, I can see you very well, even though you cannot see me. You have a slightly accelerated eye blink. Your body temperature is elevated half a degree above what I judge to be its normal value. Your muscles are tense, but in tight control, although you are now making a conscious effort to relax your back and shoulders. Your pulse is elevated, ten counts or so above normal. Palms wet, perspiration high in acids and low in potassium ions. Mouth tight, lips a little dry. Nasal mucous membranes dry also, and a fraction of a degree cooler than expected. Frequent swallowing, and tight sphincters. In summary, you are hugely excited, and tremendously controlled.

“Now, you will say that those are mere physical variables. A med machine could tell as much about you. But what I can do, and no med machine could ever do, is to integrate all those factors, and place them in context. So I can guess — nothing more than a guess, although a highly educated one — at the mental state that accompanies the physical one.

“I conclude this about your thoughts, Commander Mondrian. At the conscious level, you are pondering me and my probable appearance. That is perfectly natural. But below that, in the center of your real attention, are two other worries. First, you have lost something, and it is enormously important for you to find it. And second, a concern which takes us deeper yet, and points to the reasons that you came here in the first place: the thing that was lost is important to you, only because it protects you from something else, the thing that you fear most. The hidden thing.”

Mondrian realized that he had been thinking about the Morgan Construct, and where it might be. But until the Fropper mentioned the “lost something” the thought had been no more than a nagging background worry.

“The hidden thing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You certainly do. But not at any conscious level. That is why it is hidden.”

“Could it be the source of my nightmares — the reason why I wake up terrified every night?”

“Of course it is.” Skrynol’s voice held no uncertainty. “You did not need me to answer that question, did you? You could answer it very easily for yourself. So now we are agreed, we must begin the search for the hidden thing. Because we must certainly find it, before we can hope to get rid of it. I say again, relax.”

“I am in your hands.” And Mondrian was relaxing, more than he would have thought possible. Only his fingers were restless, turning and twisting the fire-opal at his collar. He thought he noticed a faint smell in the air, a trace of an odor like over-ripe peaches. “What do you want me to do?”

“Remain completely still. I am about to attach a few more electrodes.” Again came the cold touches, this time on Mondrian’s chest and abdomen. “Very good. Now, let me tell you exactly how we will proceed. We need to explore below the conscious levels, but it is not easy to reach them. Today, we will try for just the first stratum. I will speak certain key words — of people, animals, times, and places — and you may answer however you choose. Do not worry if we seem to be going nowhere, or round in circles.”

It was standard Fropper technique, outlawed off Earth for centuries and with an uncertain reputation even on this planet. Mondrian nodded to signify his assent. He had been through this a hundred times before, without success. But what alternatives did he have? “I am ready.”

The questions and answers began. They went on and on, annoying and pointless. Until suddenly, without ever a clear moment of transition, it was no longer a standard Fropper session. Mondrian’s head became oddly muddled inside, flashing through a sequence of vivid yet unfocused images. People, animals, times, places. He was aware that he was talking, cursing, gesturing. About what? And to what? He could not say. After an indefinite period, he heard Skrynol’s voice pushing through into his consciousness.

“Mondrian. Wake up.”

“I am awake.”

“No, you are not. Not yet. Wake up. Do you know what you have been saying to me? Think of it. Think it and live it.”

Mondrian was struggling back to full consciousness. He realized that he could remember, if he focused hard. “I know. I told you — ”

People, animals, times, places.

Memory came spinning back, with terrifying detail. Every mental picture was bright in his mind.

He was a giant spider, sitting quietly at the center of a great web. The strands shone with their own light, each one visible and running off in all directions. But there was a point beyond which their luminescence faded, or perhaps the strands themselves disappeared. He could see the web, with himself in the middle, and beyond that all was darkness. He watched, and waited, and at last felt a trembling along the glowing strands of the web. He stared out along the fines to see what prey might be caught there, but the disturbing object was too far away. It lay in the dark region. He knew from the delicate vibrations along the gossamer strands that it was moving. The vibrations strengthened. The prey was approaching.

And suddenly it was no longer prey. It was danger, a force that he could not control, creeping in towards him along the luminous threads. He could not see it, even though it must be getting nearer. And suddenly he realized that he was not waiting at the center of the web, until the right moment arose to go off and seek his victim. He was trapped, bound at the center and unable to flee from whatever was approaching out of the terrifying darkness.

“Excellent!” It was Skrynol’s calm voice, pulling him free. Mondrian jerked upright on the velvet couch. He was shivering, but lathered with perspiration. “Did you ever encounter that set of images before?”

“Never.” Mondrian again began fiddling nervously with the fire-opal at his collar. “And I’ll be happy if I never encounter them again.”

Skrynol laughed, with that high-pitched trill of delight. “Courage, Commander Mondrian! We have penetrated much farther in this first session than I had dared to hope.”

“The hidden thing. Do you know what it is?”

“I have no idea. If it were that simple, you would not need the services of a good Fropper. What we found today was a diversion, your own mind’s first level of defense against revealing its fears. The images that you built are at best an analogy for those fears — and the fears themselves stem in turn from a much deeper and earlier hidden experience. We have far to go.”

Mondrian felt the electrodes being tugged free from his body. “The session is over?”

“For today.”

“What do I owe you?”

“For today? Nothing.” Skrynol paused, a fleshy flipper resting on Mondrian’s chest. “To be more honest with you, I have already received my payment for today. Two of the electrodes that I attached contain small catheters. While you were building your memories, I drew blood through them. Don’t worry — it was just a little, less than a quarter of a liter. You have plenty left, and your body will replace the loss in a very short time.”

“Nice of you to tell me about it.” Mondrian breathed deep. He had finally stopped shivering, but he was still sweating all over. “Why do you want my blood? For analysis?”

“No, Commander. For the best, simplest, and most honest of reasons: to drink. My metabolism is not suited to the digestion of most forms of food.”

Mondrian was being lifted from the velvet seat to a standing position. “I suppose I ought to be thankful that your needs are so modest. Will that be your standard charge for services — or does the price increase as the treatment continues?”

“You are a strong man, Commander Mondrian. Few can joke at the end of a session.” There was sly humor in Skrynol’s voice as they wound their way back towards the exit. “I will not increase the price. I want you as a regular customer, you see, and if I drained you that would be the end of it.”

Mondrian felt the bottom of the upward ramp beneath his feet, and Skrynol was no longer holding him.

“You are safe enough.” The voice came from far above. “Safe, at least, as long as you are still receiving treatment. The time to watch out for is the day that I say you are cured. Because then you will not plan to return, and I will have no incentive to hold back my appetite. But for the moment, you have no need to worry. So until the next time, Commander …”

Mondrian was not sure of his own feelings as he made the return journey to the upper levels. On the one hand, Skrynol had made more progress in one session than anyone else in dozens. On the other, he could not get the spider web out of his mind. More sessions would surely mean more images, just as disturbing.

Back at Link entrance level he transferred to the appropriate exit point and made his way wearily to Tatty’s apartment. Without her presence, the living quarters felt cold and depressing. He went through to the inner room, reached up to his collar, and removed the fire-opal. The communicator had been placed in stand-by mode. He changed the setting and called for a scrambled circuit up from Earth. Within a few minutes he was connected with the Border Security facility on Pallas.

“Hasselblad? This is Mondrian. I have a special job for you. Multiple medium recording, all wavelengths.”

He was silent for a few seconds, listening to the questions from the other end.

“Sorry, but I have no idea.” He stared at the fire-opal, weighing it in his hand. “I know you do, but I couldn’t tell what screening might be operating. I just tried every setting. I’ll have this linked up to you in the next hour, and I want you to give it top priority. There might be nothing there at all. But if there is I need it by next week. ”