The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone

4

Feeling like nothing so much as an unruly student in tow behind a stern principal, I dutifully followed Charles Slycke out of the secure unit and back to his dimly lit office, which was off a small foyer leading to the fire stairs. I sat down in a chair without being asked as the portly man went behind his scarred wooden desk, nervously ran both hands through his unruly hair, then sank down in a leather swivel chair and opened a thin, pale green folder. He seemed highly agitated, and I strongly suspected that his distress sprang from a lot more than his having found me in the secure unit.

"Frederickson," the director of the clinic mumbled without looking up, "this is your brother's file I have here. I'd like to ask you a few questions about his medical history."

"I'll be happy to answer your questions, Dr. Slycke, but I filled out an extensive set of medical questionnaires on Garth yesterday. Don't you have them in the file?"

Now the other man looked up, fixed me with his pouched, rheumy eyes. "Are you certain there's nothing you've left out?"

Nothing that Slycke would believe, and nothing that would be of any use to him; the formula for, and all samples of, the serum that had twisted everything in us but our minds horribly out of shape during the Valhalla affair had been destroyed in a volcanic explosion in Greenland. If and when Garth regained consciousness, he might well feel the need to talk about our experiences; until then, there was nothing I could say about Valhalla that could serve as anything other than an unnecessary distraction.

"No," I replied. "He had the usual childhood diseases, tonsils and appendix out, and a few broken bones. You've got it all in the forms I filled out."

Slycke closed the file and pushed it to one side, then folded his hands on top of the desk and studied me. For the moment, at least, he seemed to be holding his hostility toward me in abeyance. "We've found a curious anomaly in your brother's blood chemistry, Dr. Frederickson, and I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the matter."

"What's the anomaly?"

"He has some very strange antibodies which aren't listed in any reference book; their chemical makeup is quite unlike anything the medical profession has ever seen. Are you sure your brother never suffered from some peculiar affliction? Perhaps he picked up a tropical disease while he was traveling, or in the service?"

"Not that I'm aware of. You can always check his service medical records, but I'm sure he would have told me about anything like that. Does it make a difference? We know he suffered his breakdown after he was poisoned with NPPD."

"Frederickson, your brother seems to possess antibodies in his blood for a disease that doesn't exist."

A disease called the Valhalla Project, I thought, now mercifully banished from the face of the earth-except, obviously, for antibodies left in Garth's blood. And mine. "Could the existence of those antibodies-or whatever caused the antibodies-have something to do with Garth's present condition?"

"That's impossible to say until we know what it is we're looking at. It's somewhat perplexing to discover, in your brother's case, that we're dealing with not one, but two unknowns; the effect of nitrophenylpentadienal ingestion, combined with what may be long-term, lingering effects from whatever disease caused those antibodies."

"I can't explain it," I said. "Maybe the antibodies are a reaction to the NPPD in his system."

Slycke shook his head impatiently. "There are many things about nitrophenylpentadienal we don't know-it may or may not have a long-range toxic effect on internal organs, and it may or may not be able to penetrate the blood-brain barrier. However, since it is an inorganic chemical, it cannot possibly create antibodies. Your brother was definitely exposed to some kind of exotic disease at some time in the past."

"I'm sorry I can't help you, sir."

"Your brother is in a profound catatonic state, Frederickson, and it's not going to be at all helpful to him if you play games with me."

I stiffened in my chair. "Games?"

"I require your full cooperation, and it would be most troubling to me if I thought. . you were keeping something from me I should know."

"Look, Dr. Slycke," I said carefully, "I've sensed your suspicion and hostility toward me from the moment we met, and I don't understand it. I don't want to interfere with clinic procedures, and I certainly don't want to upset anybody. All I want is to be with my brother, regardless of whether or not he knows I'm there. Is that so difficult to understand? What's the problem?"

"Your brother isn't in the secure unit. What were you doing there?"

"I was just looking around," I said with a shrug. "As a matter of fact, I'm very impressed with your operation. You should be commended."

"Why were you looking around the clinic?"

"No particular reason," I said, seeing that flattery was going to get me nowhere with Charles Slycke. "I was just curious."

"Did you ask Mr. Carling to take you there?"

"Look, Doctor," I said after a moment's hesitation, "I don't want Mr. Carling to get into trouble because you're peeved with me. I've watched him working with Garth, and I've very pleased. He seems to me an excellent nurse. When he invited me to accompany him on his rounds, he was just trying to be friendly and courteous. Where's the harm in that?"

Slycke frowned slightly. "Then it was Mr. Carling who suggested you look around?"

"Yes. As I said, he was just trying-"

"And you didn't demand to be shown the secure unit?"

"Demand? I didn't even ask; I didn't even know you had a secure unit. I keep telling you; my only real interest is in being near my brother while he's sick."

Slycke studied me with his watery eyes, apparently pondering my answer, then seemed to relax slightly. "Mr. Carling was a fool to take you into the secure unit. Marion Baker hears voices that tell him to kill dwarfs."

"Obviously, Mr. Carling wasn't aware of that."

"Ignorance of the danger is no excuse for foolishly exposing you to it. Can you imagine the explaining I'd have to do if Baker had harmed you?"

"I can take care of myself, Dr. Slycke, thank you very much," I said evenly. "Besides, what difference does it make? My being there was my responsibility, not yours. No regulations were broken; it's my understanding that the ID badge I'm wearing gives me unlimited access to all areas of the clinic."

It had been the wrong thing to say; Slycke straightened up in his chair, and his round face grew dark. "Are you going to tell me what your rights are in this facility?"

"It's the furthest thing from my mind, Doctor," I replied quietly.

"I run this clinic!"

"Most assuredly, Doctor. I didn't mean to offend you. I just want to look after my brother and mind my own business."

"Is that what you thought you were doing when you accepted an invitation from a nurse to wander around a secret facility? Did you think you were minding your own business?"

Charles Slycke was beginning to try my patience, which could be in short supply even under the best of circumstances. I was perfectly willing to offer obeisance to him just so that he wouldn't be distracted from thinking about my brother, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that nothing I could say to him was going to make any difference-and I couldn't help but wonder why.

"Why don't you tell me what's really on your mind, Dr. Slycke? You've been on my case since the moment I walked in here. Do you have a thing about dwarfs, too?"

The psychiatrist leaned back in his swivel chair, narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest, and raised his chin slightly. "Were you sent here to spy on me?"

I shook my head slightly. "Come again?"

"Our previous conversation leads me to believe that your hearing is perfectly all right."

"Who the hell would send me to spy on you?"

"That senile old man in the Pentagon that the president sees fit to keep on as Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency," Slycke said in a tight voice that trembled slightly.

"You're referring to Mr. Lippitt?"

"Of course I'm referring to Mr. Lippitt!" Slycke snapped. "Did he send you here to spy on me?!"

"You have got to be kidding."

"Answer me!"

Anger welled in me, and I struggled to control it. I looked down at the backs of my hands and took a series of deep breaths before again looking up at the florid-faced man sitting behind the desk. "I'm not a spy for anybody, Slycke," I said quietly. "If you and Mr. Lippitt have some kind of personal feud going on, that's your business. I want no part of it."

"The man is incompetent! He's too old for that job!"

"In your opinion."

"What did he say about me?!"

"He didn't say anything about you; in fact, he never even mentioned your name. He had Garth transferred here because-and he said this-he considers this the best facility of its kind. It seems to me that the obvious ill will is all on your part."

"Oh? And is that why he sent a man who isn't even a D.I.A. employee to a secret D.I.A. facility?!"

"Now you're being disingenuous, Doctor. You know perfectly well why Garth is here-to care for him, yes, but also to keep whatever is learned from his experience with NPPD safely under wraps within the intelligence community."

"Yes, but that doesn't explain why you come as part of the package. What are you doing here?"

"Garth is my brother, for Christ's sake."

"Being a relative of a patient doesn't entitle you to a Z-13 identity badge. This procedure is absolutely unprecedented, and it's an unacceptable breach of security."

"Whoa. There's been no breach of security, and there won't be-at least not on my part. Now, you may consider me a security risk, but Mr. Lippitt obviously doesn't think I am. He personally signed this badge, which makes me his responsibility, not yours. So maybe you should just get on with your business, which is healing, and let Mr. Lippitt worry about whether or not I'm a security risk."

"But why should he give you such privileges and. . authority?"

"Are you suggesting that either Mr. Lippitt or I would take advantage of my brother's condition just to spy on you?" I snapped, no longer even making an effort to contain my anger. "Maybe you think we poisoned him in order to sneak me in here? If Mr. Lippitt wanted to spy on you, don't you think-as senile and incompetent as you may believe him to be-he could have thought of a subtler way of doing it than sending me here? If you'll pardon a momentary lapse in good manners and taste, I'm telling you that's insane."

Surprisingly, my angry outburst seemed to have a calming effect on the other man. Slycke blinked slowly, then seemed to slump slightly in his chair. "I'm saying you have no business carrying a Z-13 pass, because you have no official business here. Is it any wonder I'm suspicious?"

"Garth is my official business, Doctor."

"You're a college professor. How can you spend all this time away from your classes?"

"I resigned."

"What are you living on while you spend all your time hanging around here?"

"That's none of your business, Slycke," I replied curtly. "This is how I choose to spend my time until my brother gets well."

"Your brother may never get well."

"Thanks a lot, Doctor; you've got a great bedside manner."

"I've heard rumors that you and your brother have a close personal relationship with Mr. Lippitt."

"That's also none of your business."

"You're a licensed private investigator!" Slycke was getting himself worked up again.

"So what?"

"A licensed private investigator, carrying a Z-13 badge, here under the auspices of a man who may well bear a personal grudge against me!"

"If Mr. Lippitt bore a personal grudge against you, Dr. Slycke, he wouldn't have sent me to tell you about it."

But Slycke wasn't listening to anything but the voices of his own paranoia. "I expressly advised against appointing that man Director, and I was overruled. Imagine; the man is demoted to no more than a security guard position in some godforsaken place in Nebraska. The facility he's responsible for gets blown up, he disappears for a year, and when he surfaces he's appointed Director of the agency. It's inconceivable!"

Valhalla again. Siegmund Loge and his minions were continuing to haunt me, his legacy hanging like a poisonous mist even over this mental hospital in Rockland County. It would be interesting to see what Slycke's reaction would be if he knew what Lippitt had been up to during that year-but I wasn't about to tell him. "I don't know anything about that, Doctor," I said tightly, "and my guess is that Mr. Lippitt couldn't care less about your opinion of him; Garth is here because Mr. Lippitt thinks highly of you and your facility. You're looking for enemies where there aren't any; they must have a term for that in psychiatry."

"I run this clinic, Frederickson, not Mr. Lippitt! This is a medical facility, and I have the final say here!"

"I've tried to be polite to you, Slycke," I said evenly, getting to my feet. "Obviously, simple professional courtesy and good manners aren't high on your list of priorities. I don't owe you explanations about anything, and I resent having to expend physical and emotional energy defending myself to you when my brother lies sick in bed here. I repeat; you have nothing to worry about from me, I'm not spying on you or anybody else, and my only concern is in seeing that my brother gets the best possible medical care. It's definitely not in Garth's or my interests to have you, or any other member of the staff here, distracted and looking over your shoulders because of me. So please stop doing it."

Slycke sprang to his feet, and his hands began to tremble. "Are you suggesting that personal considerations could cause me to provide anything less than the best possible care for a patient?!"

"I'm suggesting that you stop losing sleep over me and my ID badge, and I'm suggesting that you get off my back and get on with your business. Mr. Lippitt seems to think you're a pretty good psychiatrist, and I'll go along with his judgment. For now."

"For now?"

"Your hearing is no worse than mine."

"There really is no alternative care for your brother, Frederickson, considering the circumstances and cause of his condition."

"You say. If that's true, then we're stuck with each other, aren't we? I'm not about to stop visiting my brother just because you've got a problem with me."

Slycke dropped his gaze, absently patted his hair, sat back down again. "Look, Frederickson-"

"You look, Slycke. What you think of Mr. Lippitt and me is your business, but I take it as a serious personal insult for you to imply that I might use a desperately sick brother as an excuse to spy on you. Now, as far as the facility here is concerned, you do run it. I'm sorry I wandered somewhere you preferred I didn't go. From now on I will personally make it a point to notify you when I enter the building, and again when I leave; if you're not around, I'll leave a note taped to your door. In the meantime, I intend to proceed as if this conversation had never taken place. I will certainly try to stay out of your way, but I will also expect to be kept fully informed of any treatment prescribed for my brother, as well as his progress-or lack of it. That's my right as a close relative, not someone with a Z-13 badge. Good day."

Slycke started to say something, but I was in no mood to listen to any more of his nonsense; I wheeled and stalked out of the office, slamming the door behind me. I was definitely not pleased with the man in charge of Garth's medical treatment. I wanted to call Mr. Lippitt to complain, or at least ask him to try to assuage Slycke's anxieties, but knew I wouldn't. Slycke, I thought, was probably right; he and the D.I.A. clinic were probably the only game in town, and getting our ancient friend to intervene personally in this unexpected conflict might not only be construed as inappropriate, but could well prove counterproductive-after a phone call from Lippitt, Slycke's paranoia index would end up topping the charts. Charles Slycke was my problem. I would try solving it by doing as I had promised; I would stay out of his way, and hope that he focused his attention where it belonged, on finding wherever it was Garth's mind had gone, and returning it to him.