Charles Sheffield - The Mind Pool

He could see nothing, smell nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing — even the electrodes on his body no longer produced sensation. He could not move. The heat and total darkness had drained all his energy. In any case there was nowhere to go. He was alone, far from anything in the universe.

The endless questions did not change that. They seemed to rise from within, from some deep and secret hiding place inside him. He knew that the questions would end only when he gave answers. But that was impossible. The answers stuck, tearing at the delicate fabric of his brain. He groaned.

“You are resisting again.” Skrynol’s gentle voice came as a shock. “Every time we reach this area, evasion begins. I think we must stop for today.”

Soft touches on Mondrian’s sweating body told him that electrodes were being removed.

“We’re getting nowhere,” he said hoarsely. “I’m wasting your time and my own.”

“On the contrary,” said the voice in the darkness. “We are progressing. Your remark is merely another attempt by a part of you to end that progress. But it is doomed to fail. As we define the area to which you will not allow me access, I am able to infer its nature more and more accurately. Already we possess certain definite facts. For example, I know mat you are suffering the consequences of a very early experience — something that happened to you before you were three years old, something that has never been expressed in verbal form. You have spent your whole life since then, fortifying the mental walls around what happened. That is why they are so hard to break down.”

“You are killing me.”

“I think not.” Skrynol was raising Mondrian to a sitting position. “You are a strong man. Is it obvious to you, by the way, that your recurring dreams are all related to that one early experience? There is a pattern to them. They are always either a re-creation of your trauma, or a flight from it. Think of them, although I know you prefer not to. The vision is always the same, of a central figure — you — surrounded by a warm, safe, light region. And outside it, the dark.”

“That is not a new insight. Other Froppers have told me the same thing. They say that the safe region is symbolic of the womb, that I hate the fact of my birth.’

“That is the simple-minded conclusion.” Skrynol’s voice sharpened. “And of course, it is wrong.”

“How do you know?”

“Because if it were right, any Fropper could treat you successfully. I am able to recognize womb symbolism as well as anyone, although I myself never went through the birth process. Your case is quite different. You feel that you control everything in the safe region — but you also feel that the region is shrinking. Outside lies the dark, and every day the dark comes a little closer. You sense devils in that dark. You would like to flee. But you cannot, because you are always at the center of the lighted region. If you run away, in any direction, the danger may be closer yet. You cannot flee. You dare not stay. That is the source of your nightmares.”

“Suppose that you are right. How does that help me?”

“It does not. Not yet. We must go back — farther, deeper. And you must help me to do it.”

Mondrian shook his head.

“You are afraid?” went on Skrynol. “Naturally. Our most secret fears are always sacred. You can be helped — but only if you agree to being helped. You must trust me more, allow me to probe deeper, and accept that I will feel with you and for you.” There was a high-pitched laugh in the darkness. “You are horrified at the idea. Of course you are. But let me reassure you. Our secrets are never as well-kept as we would like to imagine them. I am going to tell you one of your own secrets, because until it is out of the way we will have trouble reaching back as far as we need to.”

“Why do you think I have secrets?”

“You tell me. According to your official record, you were born on Oberon, the son of a mining engineer who was pregnant when she went there. Correct?

“That s right.”

“So tell me about your mother. How old was she, what did she look like, what sort of woman was she?”

“I have told you several times. I have no memory of her. She was killed in an accident soon after I was born.”

“You have indeed told me that. And you have been lying to me.” Skrynol’s fleshy flipper came out to grip Mondrian by the shoulder. “Your mother is dead. That is true. But you remember exactly what she looked like. And you were not born on Oberon. You were born on Earth. And as a child, you were sold on Earth.”

“It wasn’t like — ”

“Do not try to deny it. I know. You were born on Earth, and as an infant you were sold on Earth, and you lived on Earth for the first eighteen years of your life. As a commoner, existing in misery and poverty until you found a chance to escape.”

“How can you know that?”

“How do you think? Today you are an educated and sophisticated man. You appreciate beauty, ideas, literature, great art, and great music. You love fine food and drink. But part of you was still shaped on Earth. Part of you is still locked into the dirt, ignorance, and violence of where you began. You nightmare began here, on this planet. And if it is to end, it must end here.”

Mondrian writhed in Skrynol’s grip. “You didn’t learn any of that from me. And you could search the solar system, and never find my background in any record. Only one other person knew. How did you ever make Tatty tell you?”

“Princess Tatiana did not tell me. You told me, in answer to my questions. Your self-control is phenomenal, Commander Mondrian, but it cannot be perfect. Every time the subject of Earth, or of people born on Earth, arose, half a dozen physical variables in your system changed. They did not run wild, but even a point or two of difference is enough for me. I deliberately added other questions, and integrated the answers. The conclusion was clear.”

“Who have you told this to?”

“No one.”

“Then let me give you an incentive for continued silence.” Mondrian was fumbling in the darkness for the shirt pocket of his uniform. He pulled out a thin packet and thrust it blindly in front of him. “Take a look at that.”

The packet was taken gently from his hands. There was a long silence. At the end of it came a soft clicking noise, and light slowly brightened in the chamber.

“Darkness will still be essential during questioning,” said Skrynol. “But it no longer serves a useful purpose at other times. Behold your tormentor — and helper.’

Crouched before Mondrian was a giant tubular shape. The pale lemon on the body bifurcation showed that Skrynol was a female Pipe-Rilla, but she was not of the usual form. Changes had been made to the long thorax, and one pair of forelimbs was augmented by fleshy appendages resembling human hands and arms.

Skrynol held out the package that Mondrian had given her. “To satisfy my curiosity, tell me when and how you managed to obtain these pictures.”

“On my first visit.” Mondrian touched the fire opal at his collar. “This holds a multiple-wavelength imaging device. I tried it in many spectral regions. Thermal infrared and microwave both proved satisfactory.”

“Ah.” Skrynol crouched nodding on her long, orange-black hind legs. “That was a failure on my part. I observed your apparently nervous manipulation of that gemstone, and thought it was oddly at variance with your general extraordinary control. But I was too naive to draw the conclusion. Mondrian, your strength of mind is astonishing, to think of such a test in the first session. But for our purposes, that strength is not good. We have a very tough struggle ahead. Will you tell me why you thought it necessary to make images?”