D. Compton - The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe

The picture returned to Katherine, catching her face as she said something. Evidently they were alone.

‘On the phone you said they’d not been rumbled, Dawlish. Are you sure of that?’

‘There’s a sequence here, sir. The chairman wants a sort of show, sir. He wants to see how fringies… er… copulate. That’s why I don’t think they’ve been rumbled, Mr Ferriman.’

‘Tell me, Dawlish, does your wife know you get to watch this sort of thing?’ Dawlish smiled, man to man. ‘Right. Now I’d better see this thing right from square one. Oh, and while it’s running, you tell the switchboard to get me Dr Mason. Mason — they have his number. Ask him to come over straight away. I may be going to need his advice.’

Dawlish warmed up another monitor. On it Vincent watched Katherine Mortenhoe past — the car ride, the garage, the elevator, the bathroom — while beside her on the first screen Katherine Mortenhoe present juddered her way through her sad affliction, and slept, and midnight came and went.

Dr Mason was hardly svelte. Both he and his clothes looked as if neither had rested for a long time. Possibly since the previous Tuesday. He entered, sat, stared; painfully, synthetically awake. Vincent foresaw trouble.

‘Ah, Mason, what kept you? We’ve got a trauma here. Sex and all that. I’ll do a rerun.’

Mason held up one finger, listening. Katherine Mortenhoe past was talking about computers. He frowned, looking from monitor to monitor, guessing which was which. ‘… They don’t have self-knowledge. On a fundamental level there’s no feedback. Otherwise it’d be like an audio system. If a microphone hears what it transmits, it transmits what it hears. Louder and louder till something breaks.’

‘She’s out of her tiny mind,’ Vincent said. Dr Mason reached for a jotter, started making notes.

‘I’m a bit more than a computer, Rod. I have self-knowledge. I understand what I know what I know what I understand.’

‘Heebie-jeebie talk,’ said Vincent. Dr Mason hushed him.

‘But you’re not dying of it. I am… So I’ve been warned what to expect. Louder and louder till something breaks.’

‘Louder? When you say louder, do you really mean faster?’

‘Utter heebie-jeebie talk,’ said Vincent. ‘I’ll do you a rerun. You ought to see the buildup.’

Dr Mason shook his head. ‘It’s not heebie-jeebie talk. She’s being obscure because it’s safer. And your man’s following her. Klausen would be very pleased.’

‘But I want to show you the buildup.’

‘It’s not necessary. Obviously my computer nonsense is running away with her. We must pull them in before it’s too late.’

Katherine Mortenhoe past stirred and opened her eyes. ‘Rod? What peep-show did you refuse them, Rod?’

‘Pull them in? You must be joking.’

‘If you don’t I won’t be responsible for the consequences.’

‘Don’t be melodramatic. We both know there’s nothing-whatever the matter with her.’

‘I’ve got to get old. There’s… so much I’ve got to understand?

Mason groaned, leaned forward, convulsively turned off the monitor, covered his eyes. ‘She needed something she could understand, feel sympathy for. God help me, I gave it to her.’

‘All right, so you did a good job. That doesn’t mean we get—’

‘You must pull them in.’ Now he was clutching Vincent’s arm. ‘Don’t you understand? The Syndrome was there ready-made, so I used it. But the computer analogy was too close. Possibly the outrage too. We were playing with fire. If we don’t pull her in I’m telling you she’ll die.’

‘Then she really is out of her tiny mind.’

‘Suggestible. Hysterical, if you like. That’s one of the reasons why we chose her. But certainly not mad.’

Vincent removed the doctor’s hand from his arm and carefully took out one of his cigars. It would put him ahead of his daily ration, but he lit it all the same. He was bigger than daily rations.

‘My dear fellow, this operation’s cost money. Your own fee wasn’t exactly peanuts. And now you say pull them in.’

‘I’m a lost soul. And I say pull them in.’

Vincent winced delicately. ‘It’s late, my dear fellow, and you’re upset. Besides, you’re forgetting — out there is the best research opportunity you’ll ever have.’

He pointed at Katherine Mortenhoe present, whimpering faintly in her sleep. Dr Mason’s teeth appeared to chatter slightly. ‘That’s what you told me. You also told me there was no question of letting her die.’

‘That’s right. An upbeat ending. A miracle cure.’

‘Money in the bank, Mr Ferriman. Nothing but that.’

Vincent stared thoughtfully at the sleeping Katherine Mortenhoe. There were points he could make. Mea culpa was all very well, but the doctor had been paid in advance: his own fee depended on ratings, and on the show’s continuance. Then again, there were artistic reputations at stake here: his own and poor Roddie’s. Furthermore, it was easy — and meaningless — to deny responsibility: there were still no positive steps Mason could take without disclosing his own somewhat unethical part in the proceedings. And Mason was surely no crusader. Unless… Vincent glanced sideways: in his present condition the doctor was conceivably capable of even that. But he wouldn’t want to, and he’d welcome a convenient compromise.

‘How long d’you think she’s got?’ Vincent asked, very gently.

‘Impossible to say. The snowball effect. She believes it’s running away with her, so of course it is.’

‘Today? Tomorrow? Surely longer than that?’

‘Probably.’

‘Then I tell you what I’ll do. You move in here, keep a professional eye on things. I’ll tell Dawlish to give you full facilities. We’ll keep a helicopter on standby and the minute you think she’s in serious danger we’ll buzz on over. Flying doctor, nick of time, wonderful stuff… how’s that then?’

Dr Mason was silent. Vincent knew his man, recognized agreement, capitulation, self-distaste. Crusaders were a dying lot.

On the screen Katherine Mortenhoe had suddenly disappeared. The camera was on the move. Dim expensive furniture loomed by, a door swinging open, a bright corridor. ‘What’s happening?’ Dr Mason asked.

Vincent was glad of the distraction. ‘Roddie’s left her sleeping. I expect he’s going for a pee.’

‘Do we have to watch?’

‘Don’t tell me you’re shy, Doctor.’

The screen centered on an elevator button, a thumb, sliding doors, a panel of buttons, the same thumb, a close steady view of walnut paneling. Then the doors as they slid back, another bright corridor, a view in mirrors of Roddie walking past, pausing to stare at himself, evidently incredulous, then on down the corridor, trying doors, looking into bedrooms.

‘He’s obviously alone,’ said Dr Mason. ’Why doesn’t he tell us what he’s doing?’

‘We decided it was seldom worth the risk. Besides, it’s after one. He’d hardly expect anyone except the duty engineer to be watching.’

On the screen a woman’s bedroom, a quick pan around furniture, dark green with tiny golden stars, dull golden bed cover, on then to a wall-long closet. Clothes roughly sorted, armfuls of them grabbed, the cover off the bed, the pillows. Rushing now, hunting in drawers…

In the viewing room, above the rustle of fabrics, the rattle of drawer runners, Vincent became aware of an insistent little tapping on the door. He called — not irritably, he was never irritable — and Dawlish came in. ‘There’s a lady to see you, Mr Ferriman.’

‘A lady? At this time of night? Who let her up?’