Robert Silverberg - The Second Trip

Gomez considered that. He didn’t seem to arrive at any immediate conclusions.

Macy said, “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. One of two things. He’ll knock me out and take over the body, or I’ll find some way of chopping him up so he can’t hurt me.

“You’re playing dangerous games, Macy. Come to the Center. I know Hamlin better than you do: he won’t carry out his threat, he won’t do anything ultimately to harm you. Killing you would mean the decay and ruin of his own physical self, the last legitimate vestige of Nat Hamlin in the world. He wouldn’t do it. He’s always been body-proud.”

“Balls. I’m no gambler. He said keep away from you and I’m going to keep away.”

“We can’t let you remain at large with the ego of a condemned criminal in partial control of your brain,” Gomez said.

“What will you do, then? Order my arrest? He’ll kill me. I believe him when he says that. Do you want to take the chance? It isn’t your life on the line, Gomez. You’ve been wrong in this case once already.”

Twitchings of the mustache tips. The tongue moving restlessly between teeth and lips. Gomez in a pickle. Macy staring across the desk at him. He felt his heart hammering. Was it Hamlin, waking up? Or just the excitement, the adrenalin flow?

Gomez said finally, “Well have to put you under surveillance. The legal problems, the presence of a potentially dangerous criminal in you. But we’ll keep our distance. We won’t jeopardize you.”

“How will you know whether you’re jeopardizing me or not?”

“A signal,” Gomez suggested. “Wait.” Frowning. “Let’s say that when Hamlin is threatening you, you clap your right hand to your left shoulder. So.”

“So.” Clap.

“That’ll tell us to back off, so we don’t provoke him. And when you want us to withdraw from the vicinity entirely, that is, when you feel that you’re in extreme danger, you also clap your left hand to your right shoulder. So.”

“So.” Clap. Clap. Idiocy. “How about a secret password, too?”

“I’m trying to help you, Macy. Don’t be clever.”

“Is there anything else you want to tell me, or can I get back to my work now?”

“One more signal, if you don’t mind.”

“The one that I use in asking for permission to take a crap?”

“The one to tell us that Hamlin is dormant and that it would be safe for us to seize you. Do you agree that it’s possible such a situation might arise? All right, then. That would be our opportunity to grab you and try to exorcise him completely, fast. But only when you give the signal.”

“Which is?”

Gomez thought a moment. Deep concentration. All this Boy Scout stuff must really strain his mind. Finally: “Hands locked together behind neck. Like so.”

“So,” Macy said, imitating. “You won’t let your goons mix up the signals, will you?”

“Just keep them straight in your own head and we’ll manage to look after ourselves,” Gomez said. He moved toward the door. Looking back, shaking his head. “A case of demonic possession, that’s what this is. Holy shit. The seventeenth century rides again! But we’ll get this corrected, Macy. We owe you an uncrapped-up life, a life without these complications.” Pausing by the exit. “If you want to know what’s good for you, by the way, I recommend you stop screwing around with Miss Moore. You’re living with her, aren’t you?”

“More or less.”

“You were strongly advised not to get into any entanglements linked to your body’s former identity. Specifically including picking up Nat Hamlin’s old mistresses, telepaths or not.”

“Should I boot her out on her ass? She’s a human being. She’s got problems. She needs help.”

“She’s the cause of all your problems, too. It’s about ten to one you wouldn’t be saddled with Hamlin in the first place if you hadn’t gotten involved with her.”

“That’s easy to tell me now. But I have Hamlin, and I feel a responsibility toward her, too. She’s a wreck. She needs an anchor, Gomez, somebody to keep her from drifting away.”

“What’s the matter with her?”

“The ESP. It’s driving her out of her mind. She picks up voices—half the time she doesn’t know who she is—she has to hide from people, to shield herself—the telepathy comes and goes, random, not under her conscious control at all. It’s like a curse.”

“And this you need?” Gomez asked. “You’re such a solidly established individual yourself that you can keep company with dynamite like this?”

“It wasn’t my idea, believe me. But now that I’m involved with her, I’m not going to toss her out. I want to help her.”

“How?”

“Maybe there’s some way of disconnecting this ESP of hers. It’s burning out her mind. What do you say, Gomez? Could it be done?”

“I don’t know item one about ESP. I’m a Rehab specialist.”

“Who does know?”

“I suppose I could find out if there are any hospitals in the metropolitan area with experience in this. Some neuropsychiatric division must be pissing around with ESP. If she hates it so much, why hasn’t she gone in to be examined?”

“She’s afraid to let anyone fool with her mind. Afraid that she’ll end up losing her whole personality if they try to rip out the telepathy.”

“Shit. You tell me you want to help her, and two seconds later you tell me she’s scared of being helped. This is crazy, man. The girl is poison. Get her into a hospital.”

“Tell me where to send her,” Macy said. “I’ll see if I want to do it. And if she does.” He gave Gomez a sudden savage grin and clapped his right hand to his left shoulder. A moment afterward he put his left hand on his right shoulder. Gomez stared at him, blinking, not moving at all. “Well, dummy?” Macy asked. “You forgot your own signals? That’s the one for withdrawing from the vicinity.”

“Has Hamlin begun to threaten you?”

“Don’t stand there asking stupid questions. You got the signal. Go. Go. I have work to do. Let me be, Gomez.”

“You poor schmuck,” Gomez said. “What a lousy thing this is. For all of us.” And went. Macy cradled his head in his hands. An ache behind each ear. An ache in his forehead, as though the front of his brain were swollen and pushing against the bone. Practice the signals. Right hand to left shoulder. Left hand to right shoulder. Lock hands behind back of neck. Surveillance. The friendly Rehab Center haunting me too. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. He thought he could hear Nat Hamlin’s ghostly laughter reverberating through the interstices of his frazzled mind. Hey, are you awake, Nat? Did you listen to what Gomez said? Listening now? They’re out to get you, Nat. Gomez is after you. To finish the job that he didn’t do right the first time. Scared, Nat? I don’t mind telling you I am. Because only one of us is going to come out of this whole, at the very best. At the very best, only one of us.

If they really did have him under surveillance, he wasn’t aware of it. He went through his daily routines. Finished preparing the script for the charisma story on Monday. Taping on Tuesday. Everything smooth. Back and forth from apartment to the office without trouble. Hamlin, surfacing coherently early Tuesday evening for the first time since Thursday, had a pleasant little chat with him, saying nothing about his conference with Gomez or about the abortive takeover attempt of that stoned Thursday evening. Fair is fair, Macy thought You try to finesse me, I try to sandbag you, but we don’t talk about such sordid things.

Hamlin chose to turn on the charm, reminiscing a bit about his life and good times. Selected segments of his autobiography come dancing along the identity interface. With subtitles.