"You're damned right!" Infield slammed the door behind him.
* * * * *
The cool air of the street was a relief. Infield stepped into the main
stream of human traffic and tried to adjust to the second change in the
air. People didn't bathe very often these days.
He walked along, buffeted by the crowd, carried along in this
direction, shoved back in that direction. Most people in the crowd
seemed to be Normals, but you couldn't tell. Many "Cures" were not
readily apparent.
A young man with black glasses and a radar headset (a photophobe) was
unable to keep from being pushed against Infield. He sounded out the
lightning rod, his face changing when he realized it must be some kind
of Cure. "Pardon me," he said warmly.
"Quite all right."
It was the first time in years that anyone had apologized to Infield
for anything. He had been one of those condemned Normals, more to be
scorned than pitied. Perhaps he could really get to understand these
people, now that he had taken down the wall.
Suddenly something else was pushing against Infield, forcing the
air from his lungs. He stared down at the magnetic suction dart
clinging leechlike to his chest. Model Acrophobe 101-X, he catalogued
immediately. Description: safety belt. But his emotions didn't behave
so well. He was thoroughly terrified, heart racing, sweat glands
pumping. The impervium cable undulated vulgarly. _Some primitive fear
of snake symbols?_ his mind wondered while panic crushed him.
"Uncouple that cable!" the shout rang out. It was not his own.
A clean-cut young man with mouse-colored hair was moving toward the
stubble-chinned, heavy-shouldered man quivering in the center of a web
of impervium cables stuck secure to the walls and windows of buildings
facing the street, the sidewalk, a mailbox, the lamp post and Infield.
Mouse-hair yelled hoarsely, "Uncouple it, Davies! Can't you see the
guy's got a lightning rod? You're grounding him!
"I can't," Davies groaned. "I'm scared!"
Halfway down the twenty feet of cable, Mouse-hair grabbed on. "I'm
holding it. Release it, you hear?"
Davies fumbled for the broad belt around his thickening middle. He
jabbed the button that sent a negative current through the cable. The
magnetic suction dart dropped away from Infield like a thing that had
been alive and now was killed. He felt an overwhelming sense of relief.
* * * * *
After breathing deeply for a few moments, he looked up to see Davies
releasing and drawing all his darts into his belt, making it resemble a
Hydra-sized spiked dog collar. Mouse-hair stood by tensely as the crowd
disassembled.
"This isn't the first time you've pulled something like this, Davies,"
he said. "You weren't too scared to release that cable. You just don't
care about other people's feelings. This is _official_."
Mouse-hair drove a fast, hard right into the soft blue flesh of Davies'
chin. The big man fell silently.
The other turned to Infield. "He was unconscious on his feet," he
explained. "He never knew he fell."
"What did you mean by that punch being official?" Infield asked while
trying to arrange his feelings into the comfortable, familiar patterns.
The young man's eyes almost seemed to narrow, although his face didn't
move; he merely radiated narrowed eyes. "How long have you been Cured?"
"Not--not long," Infield evaded.
The other glanced around the street. He moistened his lips and spoke
slowly. "Do you think you might be interested in joining a fraternal
organization of the Cured?"
Infield's pulse raced, trying to get ahead of his thoughts, and losing
out. A chance to study a pseudo-culture of the "Cured" developed in
isolation! "Yes, I think I might. I owe you a drink for helping me out.
How about it?"
The man's face paled so fast, Infield thought for an instant that he
was going to faint. "All right. I'll risk it." He touched the side of
his face away from the psychiatrist.
Infield shifted around, trying to see that side of his benefactor,
but couldn't manage it in good grace. He wondered if the fellow was
sporting a Mom-voice hearing aid and was afraid of raising her ire. He
cleared his throat, noticing the affectation of it. "My name's Infield."
"Price," the other answered absently. "George Price. I suppose they
have liquor at the Club. We can have a _drink_ there, I guess."
Price set the direction and Infield fell in at his side. "Look, if you
don't drink, I'll buy you a cup of coffee. It was just a suggestion."
* * * * *
Under the mousy hair, Price's strong features were beginning to gleam
moistly. "You are lucky in one way, Mr. Infield. People take one look
at your Cure and don't ask you to go walking in the rain. But even
after seeing _this_, some people still ask me to have a drink." _This_
was revealed, as he turned his head, to be a small metal cube above his
left ear.
Infield supposed it was a Cure, although he had never issued one like
it. He didn't know if it would be good form to inquire what kind it was.
"It's a cure for alcoholism," Price told him. "It runs a constant blood
check to see that the alcohol level doesn't go over the sobriety limit."
"What happens if you take one too many?"
Price looked off as if at something not particularly interesting, but
more interesting than what he was saying. "It drives a needle into my
temple and kills me."
The psychiatrist felt cold fury rising in him. The Cures were supposed
to save lives, not endanger them.
"What kind of irresponsible idiot could have issued such a device?" he
demanded angrily.
"I did," Price said. "I used to be a psychiatrist. I was always good
in shop. This is a pretty effective mechanism, if I say so myself. It
can't be removed without causing my death and it's indestructible.
Impervium-shielded, you see."
Price probably would never get crazed enough for liquor to kill
himself, Infield knew. The threat of death would keep him constantly
shocked sane. Men hide in the comforts of insanity, but when faced with
death, they are often forced back to reality. A man can't move his
legs; in a fire, though, he may run. His legs were definitely paralyzed
before and may be again, but for one moment he would forget the moral
defeat of his life and his withdrawal from life and live an enforced
sanity. But sometimes the withdrawal was--or could become--too complete.
"We're here."
Infield looked up self-consciously and noticed that they had crossed
two streets from his building and were standing in front of what
appeared to be a small, dingy cafe. He followed Price through the
screeching screen door.
They seated themselves at a small table with a red-checked cloth.
Infield wondered why cheap bars and restaurants always used red-checked
cloths. Then he looked closer and discovered the reason. They did a
remarkably good job of camouflaging the spots of grease and alcohol.
* * * * *
A fat man who smelled of the grease and alcohol of the tablecloths
shuffled up to them with a towel on his arm, staring ahead of him at
some point in time rather than space.
Price lit a cigarette with unsteady hands. "Reggie is studying biblical
text. Cute gadget. His contact lenses are made up of a lot of layers
of polarized glass. Every time he blinks, the amount of polarization
changes and a new page appears. His father once told him that if he
didn't study his Bible and pray for him, his old dad would die."
The psychiatrist knew the threat on the father's part couldn't create
such a fixation by itself. His eyebrows faintly inquired.