John Brunner - The Whole Man

There was silence for a moment. Howson could think of nothing to say.

“And of course I’ve been so jealous of you,” she went on in a level tone. “While I had to drop back into this anonymous existence, you became important and famous…”

“I suppose you wouldn’t believe me,” said Howson meditatively, “if I were to tell you that sometimes I feel I’d give up fame, importance, everything, for the privilege of looking other men straight in the eye and walking down the street without a limp.”

In an odd voice she said, “Yes, Gerry, I think I do believe you. I heard they hadn’t been able to do anything — about your leg, I mean. And the rest of it. I’m sorry.”

A thought struck her, and she stiffened. “Gerry, you haven’t really been telling Jill and Bobby the same kind of stories you told me? I’d never forgive you if you cursed them with the same kind of discontent.”

“I’ve learned a lot in eleven years,” Howson said bitterly. “You needn’t worry. I just told them about my work at Ulan Bator, and Jill says she wants to be a nurse anyway. I don’t think it will leave them discontented.”

“It left me that way,” Mary mused. “I remember the stories you told me much more vividly than I remember the dreadful place where we were living. The stories are more—more definite. While the real world has faded into a blur of grey.”

Howson had not yet replied when there were steps in the hall, and the sound of the children running. A man’s voice was heard greeting them affectionately.

“There’s Steve,” said Mary dispiritedly. “I wish—”

Howson didn’t hear what she wished, for at that moment Williams entered the lounge and stopped in surprise at seeing Howson there. “Uh — good afternoon!” he said blankly, his eyes asking furious questions of his wife.

“Steve, this is — I guess I should call you ‘doctor’, shouldn’t I, Gerry? — Dr. Gerry Howson, from Ulan Bator. He used to be a friend of mine before I met you.”

Williams signally failed to mask the fact that he thought his wife’s choice of friends must have been peculiar, but he offered his hand and Howson rose to take it.

“Gerry’s a psychiatrist,” Mary explained further, and Howson shook his head, wondering why she hadn’t told her husband about him.

“Not exactly. I’m actually a curative telepathist on the staff of the therapy centre there — the Asian headquarters of WHO.”

“A telepathist!” The information shook Williams severely. “Well, how — uh — interesting! I never met one of you people before.” And never particularly wanted to, his mind glossed silently.

There was a pause. Mary tried to fill it by saying in a bright voice, “You’ll stay for supper with us, Gerry, I hope?” But behind the words he could read desperate anxiety: please say no, I never told him about you and I don’t think I could bear to have you reminding me, reminding me …

Howson made great play of looking at his watch. “I’d love to,” he lied. “But I haven’t got too much time and I want to look up a good many old acquaintances. I’d better say no.”

He collected his valise and took his leave. On the doorstep he looked back at Mary.

“Apologize to the children for my not being able to stay and tell them another story, won’t you?” he said. “And — try not to hate me.”

“I promise,” said Mary with a wan smile.

“And try not to pity me, either!” he finished savagely, turning his back. He wished he could have stormed down the path from the house, instead of hobbling like a rather ridiculous jointed doll.

For many years the hope had endured in his mind: that the deaf-and-dumb girl who had been kind to him had not suffered lastingly because of him. He had believed that there, if anywhere, he had managed ultimately to ensure a person’s happiness.

He had avoided questioning the assumption — why ? Because he subconsciously realized the truth ?

The encounter with her had jolted his personality to its foundations. For a while, as he limped towards the highway fringing the West Walnut development, he was inclined to abandon his trip at once, unwilling to face any more such revelations. But this was exactly what he must not do; no matter how unique his talent made him, he remained a human being, and he had come hunting for the completion of that humanity.

He sighed, put his valise down on the sidewalk and looked both ways along the street. A cab was turning around after dropping a dark-suited man, home from work. He waved at the driver, wondering where he should ask to be taken now.

The vehicle went on by. In sudden anger Howson made as if to project a deafening mental shout after it, but at the last moment he realized the driver had mistaken him for a kid waving a greeting because of his small size, and contented himself with suggesting that the man think again.

The cab braked, reversed, pulled up to where he stood. The hackie, a thick-set man with humorous eyes, took in Howson’s appearance, considered it, shrugged. He said, “Sorry, pal—dreaming, I guess. I lose more fares — Where to, anyway?”

“Grand Avenue,” Howson said briefly, and scrambled in.

Now, the name was ridiculous. The process of disintegration which had begun at the time of Howson’s birth and was well under way when he left for Ulan Bator had gone nearly to completion. A stretch of four blocks at the north end of the avenue was being demolished and laid out as a city housing project; beyond, as though disheartened by the threat of extinction, the stores had closed their eyes behind lids of crude bright posters — everything must go! clearance sale! lease up, bargain time now!

An evening wind pushed balls of paper and clouds of dust down the unswept gutters, and the few people about walked with an air of gloom.

There was the movie theatre where he had conceived his first and disastrous attempt at importance, still struggling on, but grimy and neglected. And beyond it, something entirely new: a handsome, clean, tall block with discreet bronze lettering on the marble pillars of its main door. Frowning, Howson considered what they said.

CENTRAL UNIVERSITY — FACULTY OF PURE AND APPLIED SCIENCE.

“Driver!” he called. “Take it slow along here, will you?”

Complying with a dab on his brakes, the driver glanced over his shoulder. “Makes a difference, doesn’t it?” he commented. “That’s the Drake Gift, that place. Whole big piece of land given to the university a few years back. Going to have room for a thousand students when they’re through — study halls, offices, hostels!”

Well, that was an improvement, no denying. But once more Howson felt the unaccountable stab of nostalgia at the disappearance of a place he had never thought he would want to see again.

“Is it already in use ?” he asked.

“Oh, sure — since last fall. They put the students into rooms all around this district so they needn’t wait till the hostels are ready.”

Way, way back young Gerry Howson had had visions of going to college, then on to some academic career… He stifled the memory with an effort. Even if he had got farther than he had done towards his goal, his gift would have developed sooner or later and everything else would have had to take second place anyway. He wouldn’t have got where he was by the same route, but he would have been forced here eventually.

“Is there still a bar along here on the right?” he asked. “The one that used to be run by a guy called Horace Hampton?”

“The Snake?” The driver twisted his head clear around at that. “You must have been away a long time, pal! I recall the Snake, but only just! Why — uh — ten years back, I guess, some teeps came in from the UN and went through the big rackets and cleared “em out. The Snake got five years with compulsory rehabilitation for accessory to murder, and last I heard he was going to join some UN outfit and make good.”