Gene Wolfe - There Are Doors

“I suppose everyone has, Mr. Green.”

“And yet we have Visitors sometimes, and things from our world that just go away.”

Dr. Nilson nodded. “Like the sign at the airport—arrivals and departures.”

“I guess so. I’ve never ridden in a jet, or any other kind of airplane. But I know that people and things just vanish, and sometimes other people and other things show up here.” He tried to recall what Fanny had said about the television channels but decided he could not explain it well enough. He said, “There’s another world, just next door, if you go through the right door.”

Dr. Nilson did something on the underside of her desk top. “Please go on, Mr. Green.”

“Suppose that in that world there was a woman—a goddess, really—who wanted to make love to a man from our world.”

Dr. Nilson smiled. “Why should she want to do that, Mr. Green?”

“Because in her world men die after they make love.”

“Like drones, is that what you mean? I must say it would be a nice reversal; here so many of us die after rape, or even before it.”

He said, “I don’t understand about the drones.”

“Male honeybees. Most bees are sterile females; they’re the ones who do the work. A few are fertile females, I suppose they’re called princesses. A few others are fertile males: drones. At the nuptial flight, the strongest drones mate with the princesses, who become queens. Then the drones die.”

He shook his head. “It isn’t really like that, there. The men do a lot of the work. The cop that talked to me at the fire was a man and so was the medic, and later the clerk who wouldn’t let me back into the hotel. But when they make love, they die. Their immune systems collapse. A doctor there told me that—Dr. Applewood.”

Dr. Nilson smiled again. “You mean they have doctors, just as we do? And policemen? I suppose they speak English?”

“Yes, at least in the part I visited. But they must have different languages in different places. I know there’s a man who talks with a German—” Abruptly he fell silent.

“What is it, Mr. Green?”

“I just realized who it was I heard calling Lara when I was talking to her—to your Lora—on the phone. It was him. It was Klamm.”

Dr. Nilson leaned toward him, her hands clasped beneath her chin. “Don’t you realize, Mr. Green, that if there were a world like the one you’ve been telling me about, a world where men die after intercourse, it would have customs—a whole culture—quite different from ours?”

“They don’t,” he said. “It’s a lot like ours.” He paused, thinking. “I hadn’t really worked it all out before, but it has to be. Because the worlds are so close, because it’s so easy to go across. Suppose somebody there thinks up a new word. Pretty soon somebody switches over, maybe not even knowing that he did it, and hears the word and brings it back. Or maybe one of them comes here and uses the word. Probably a lot of customs that we think are ours are really theirs, like the groom wearing black at his wedding.”

There was a discreet tap at the door. Dr. Nilson called, “Come in.”

Two husky black men in the trousered white uniforms of male nurses entered. Both were about his own age, and it seemed to him that their dark, serious faces contrasted oddly with their clothes. One carried a small canvas bag.

“I don’t believe you’ll have trouble with Mr. Green,” Dr. Nilson said. “In many respects he seems quite rational, and it may be that he needs nothing more than a short rest.”

When he stood up, a man took each arm. Something with Lara at its heart exploded in him, and he fought them as he had not fought since he was a boy, shouting and kicking. They threw him down. One held him while the other unzipped the bag and forced him into a canvas and leather straitjacket.

Her voice kind, Dr. Nilson said, “Mr. Green, I’m going to telephone Mr. Drummond, where you work. If you want to make a disturbance—to cry out for help, for example—you may do so. But it will make a poor impression on Mr. Drummond; I think you realize that.”

She had picked up the handset and pressed numbers as she spoke. For a moment, the room fell silent as she listened to the instrument.

“This is Dr. Nilson, Mr. Green’s doctor? May I speak to Mr. Drummond please? It’s important.

“Mr. Drummond? Dr. Nilson. Mr. Green tells me you wanted him to bring you a letter to establish that he had seen me. I hope this call will do instead.

“Fine. I’m having Mr. Green hospitalized, Mr. Drummond. I don’t believe that his problems are very serious, but after such an extended absence, I consider it advisable.

“I can’t make a definite promise, Mr. Drummond. Perhaps around the end of the month, perhaps somewhat later.

“I don’t know. My professional opinion is that he will be ready and able to return to work when he is released, but that’s opinion, and not fact.

“Of course. Good-bye.”

She hung up, and for the first time he was conscious of her perfume, a slight flowery fragrance more suited to a young girl. “Mr. Drummond asked me to convey his good wishes to you, and his hopes for a speedy recovery. You work for a very enlightened company, Mr. Green, one by no means oblivious, as so many are, to the demands of humanity. I hope you appreciate it. You will have heard me tell him that I believe your hospitalization need be only a short time, and that I expect you to be able to return to work upon your release. I said those things because you had wisely chosen to remain silent, a hopeful sign.”

He said, “Thank you.”

“I can’t visit you every day in the hospital; my schedule is too crowded for that. But I will try to see you there three or four times a week. I hope to find you progressing, and I’m certain I shall.” She nodded to the men, who helped him to his feet.

He said, “I don’t think this is necessary.”

“But I do, and you must defer to my opinion.”

The words broke out, though he struggled to bite them back. “This will keep me from finding Lara.”

“It will certainly prevent you from looking, Mr. Green. I hope that soon we’ll be able to show you how pointless it is to look, just as it would be pointless to look for Cinderella.”

One of the white-uniformed men said, “Come on,” in a voice that was soft and even gentle. There was a tug on his arm.

He said, “All right,” and as he spoke, the telephone rang.

Dr. Nilson picked the handset up. “Oh, hello, Lora … No, I’m not angry. I know how trying it can be.”

They pulled him out of the office and closed the door firmly behind him. “Now walk.”

He did, down the stairs and out the back of the building. A small white ambulance—actually a van sporting red emergency lights—stood at the curb. One of the men opened the side door for him. He went in, and the man followed him. The other man got into the driver’s seat.

When he sat down, the first man slapped him hard on his left ear, the blow like an explosion at the side of his head. “That’s for kicking my knee,” the man said. “I want you to know.”

He could scarcely make out the words for the ringing that filled his head, but he nodded.

“We like it when they fight and yell,” the man told him. “It’s the yellers and the cussers that come out first—anybody tell you that. People like you still got some pepper in them, they don’t just knuckle down, they say, hey, I’m gonna get out of this place. Only if you kick and hit, you’re gonna get hit back.”

He nodded again and said, “I understand.”

“Only not ’cause I explained it to you. ’Cause I hit you, that’s why.”