Robert Silverberg: Thorns

She felt muscles quivering in her thighs. These fancy shoes; hard to stand this way. But they made her look taller, older. It was important to look outwardly the way she had come to be inwardly. That trip with Burris had aged her five years in as many weeks. The constant tension … the bickering…

Above all, the terrible exhaustion after each quarrel…

She would look the fat man straight in the eye. If he tried to worm out of his promise, she’d make life difficult for him. No matter how powerful he was, he couldn’t cheat her! She’d been nursemaid to that weird refugee from an alien planet long enough to have earned the right to her own babies. She—

That wasn’t right, she admonished herself suddenly. I mustn’t make fun of him. He didn’t ask for his troubles. And I volunteered to share them.

Nikolaides stepped into the abrupt silence. “Now that you’re back on Earth, Lona, what are your plans?”

“To arrange for the children, first. Then I want to disappear from public life for good. I’ve had two rounds of publicity now, one when the babies were taken from me, one when I went off with Minner. That’s enough.”

“Where will you go? Will you leave Earth?”

“I doubt it. I’ll stay. Maybe I’ll write a book.” She smiled. “No, that wouldn’t be so good, would it? More publicity. I’ll live quietly. How about Patagonia?” She peered forward. “Do you have any idea where he is now?”

“Chalk?”

“Minner,” she said.

“Still on Titan, so far as I know. Aoudad’s with him.”

“They’ve been there three weeks, then. I suppose they’re having a good time.” Her lips curved fiercely.

“I know Aoudad must be,” Nikolaides said. “Give him plenty of available women, and he’d have a good time anywhere. But I couldn’t vouch for Burris. All I know is that they haven’t made any move to come home yet. Still interested in him, are you?”

“No!”

Nikolaides put his hands to his ears. “All right. All right. I believe you. It’s just that—”

The door at the far end of the room rippled inward. A small, ugly man with long, thin lips stepped through. Lona recognized him: he was d’Amore, one of Chalk’s men. She said at once, “Has Chalk showed up yet? I’ve got to talk to him!”

D’Amore’s unpleasant mouth produced the broadest-smile she had ever seen. “You’re really asserting yourself these days, milady! No more wispy shyness, eh? But no; Chalk’s not here yet. I’m waiting for him myself.” He came farther into the room, and Lona noticed that someone stood behind him: white-faced, mild-eyed, totally at his ease, a man of middle years who smiled in a foolish way. D’Amore said, “Lona, this is David Melangio. He knows a few tricks. Give him the date you were born and the year; he’ll tell you what day of the week it was.”

Lona gave it.

“Wednesday,” said Melangio instantly.

“How does he do that?”

“It’s his gift. Call off a string of numbers for him, as fast as you can, but clearly.”

Lona called off a dozen numbers. Melangio repeated them.

“Right?” d’Amore asked, beaming.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I forgot them myself.” She walked over to the idiot-savant, who regarded her without interest. Looking into his eyes, Lona realized that Melangio was another freak, all trick, no soul. She wondered, chilled, if they were hatching a new love affair for her.

Nikolaides said, “Why’d you bring him back? I thought Chalk had let his option go.”

“Chalk thought Miss Kelvin would like to talk to him,” d’Amore replied. “He asked me to bring Melangio over.”

“What am I supposed to say to him?” Lona asked.

D’Amore smiled. “How would I know?”

She drew the long-lipped man aside and whispered, “He’s not right in the head, is he?”

“I’d say he’s missing something there, yes.”

“So Chalk’s got another project for me? Am I supposed to hold his hand now?”

It was like asking the wall. D’Amore merely said, “Take him inside, sit down, talk. Chalk probably won’t be here for another hour yet.”

There was an adjoining room, with a floating glass table and several lounge chairs. She and Melangio went in, and the door closed with the finality of a cell door.

Silence. Stares.

He said, “Ask me anything about dates. Anything.”

He rocked rhythmically back and forth. His smile did not fade at any moment. He was about seven years old mentally, Lona thought.

“Ask me when George Washington died. Ask me. Or anybody else. Anybody important.”

“Abraham Lincoln,” she sighed.

“April 15, 1865. Do you know how old he’d be if he were still alive today?” He told her, instantly, down to the day. It sounded right to her. He looked pleased with himself.

“How do you do it?”

“I don’t know. I just can. I always have been able to. I can remember the weather and all the dates.” He giggled. “Do you envy me?”

“Not very much.”

“Some people do. They wish they could learn how. Mr. Chalk would like to know how. He wants you to marry me, you know.”

Lona winced. Trying not to be cruel, she said, “Did he tell you that?”

“Oh, no. Not with words. But I know. He wants us to be together. Like you used to be, when you were with the man with the funny face. Chalk enjoyed that. Especially when you had arguments with him. I was with Mr. Chalk once, and he got red in the face and chased me out of the room, and later he called me back. It must have been when you and the other one were having a fight.”

Lona groped for an understanding of all this. “Can you read minds, David?”

“No.”

“Can Chalk?”

“No. Not read. It doesn’t come in words. It comes in feelings. He reads feelings. I can tell. And he likes unhappy feelings. He wants us to be unhappy together, because that would make him happy.”

Perplexed, Lona leaned toward Melangio and said, “Do you like women, David?”

“I like my mother. I sometimes like my sister. Even though they hurt me a lot when I was young.”

“Have you ever wanted to get married?”

“Oh, no! Married is for grown-ups!”

“And how old are you?”

“Forty years, eight months, three weeks, two days. I don’t know how many hours. They won’t tell me what time I was born.”

“You poor bastard.”

“You’re sorry for me because they won’t tell me what time I was born.”

“I’m sorry for you,” she said. “Period. But I can’t do anything for you, David. I’ve used up all my niceness. Now people have to start being nice to me.”

“I’m nice to you.”

“Yes, you are. You’re very nice.” Impulsively she took his hand in hers. His skin was smooth and cool. Not as smooth as Burris’s, though, nor as cool. Melangio shivered at the contact, but allowed her to squeeze the hand. After a moment she let go and went to the wall and ran her hands over the side of the room until the door opened. She stepped through and saw Nikolaides and d’Amore murmuring to each other.

“Chalk wants to see you now,” d’Amore said. “Did you enjoy your little visit with David?”

“He’s charming. Where’s Chalk?”

Chalk was in his throne-room, perched on high. Lona clambered up the crystal rungs. As she approached the fat man, she felt old timidnesses returning. She had learned how to cope with people lately, but coping with Chalk might be beyond her grasp.

He rocked in his huge chair. His broad face creased in what she took to be a smile.

“So nice to see you again. Did you enjoy your travels?”

“Very interesting. And now, my babies—”

“Please, Lona, don’t rush. Have you met David?”

“Yes.”