Force And Motion Part 13

Clark was only half listening to what Maxwell was saying. He was too intent on what Maxwell was carrying to be able to give anything else his full attention. "That," he said, "is the ugliest dog I've ever seen."

Maxwell nodded. "Can't argue with you there."

The dog appeared to be some kind of dachshund, though its coat was longer and scrubbier than anything Clark had ever seen on the breed. The dog's body hung down over Maxwell's forearms in a manner that indicated it had no bones. The front and rear paws dangled limply. For a moment, Clark thought it might be unconscious or even dead, but then it opened its eyes, which were bloodshot. The dog looked at him and then looked away, staring into the middle distance as if it was watching its own death approaching, which, Clark judged, was entirely possible. It yawned, exposing yellow teeth. A rancorous stench emerged, penetrating every nook and cranny of the room. It closed its mouth and appeared to fall back asleep or, possibly, into a coma.

"Is it yours?" Clark asked, praying for a denial.

"As much as it belongs to anyone." Maxwell shrugged. "Sure."

"Why?"

"It's a long a story," Maxwell said.

"Does it have a name?" Clark was reasonably sure he didn't want to hear the story, so his brain was manufacturing evasion techniques. Interestingly, his knee didn't hurt anymore. The dog's overwhelming stench had driven away every other sensory input.

"The attendant in the holding area was calling him Horrible."

"Horrible."

"Yes."

"Okay," Clark said. "Let's get you and Horrible back to wherever you belong tonight."

"Well," Maxwell said. "About that . . ."

In the end, after much double-talk and fudging of forms, Maxwell and Horrible settled in one of the guest cottages. "While not exactly a patient," Clark explained to the matron, "neither is he a member of the staff."

The matron looked dubious, though she had the good manners not to point out how ludicrous this sounded. "So, then, an alumnus?"

"Let's go with that for now."

The next day, after sleep and the scrubbing of the stench of Horrible from his hands, Clark paid them a visit. Maxwell had shaved and showered, but was still wearing the same clothes, though they had obviously been cleaned or at least blotted. Horrible was curled up on a small rug near an open window. A layer of filth might have been removed-he looked less matted than before-and the cleansing made it possible for Clark to see large patches where the dog's fur had been rubbed away or, possibly, scratched off. Clark bent down over the dog, feeling it was inc.u.mbent on him to offer some kind of greeting.

"I wouldn't," Maxwell said. "I don't think he likes to be touched."

Clark withdrew his hand. "Oh," he said, "that must have made was.h.i.+ng him an interesting experience."

"It was. I already told the matron that I'll clean up the bathroom," Maxwell explained. "Bit by bit. When my strength returns."

"Lovely." Clark sat down in the single guest chair. Maxwell was already seated on the small couch, sipping at a mug of tea. The doctor noted that his left hand was very pink, as if a knitter recently repaired the flesh. He hadn't recalled seeing an injury the night before, though Maxwell had been carrying the dog in his arms. "I think it might be time for your story. I've cleared my schedule for the afternoon just in case . . ."

"No worries," Maxwell said. "I've been rehearsing the condensed version."

"Good," Clark said, crossing his legs. "Pray commence."

Maxwell inhaled deeply and then let the breath out slowly. He steepled his fingertips, then parted them, presenting his palms as if he was holding an offering. "I've been in Auckland for a couple weeks. I came here because I wanted a beer. I'd been staying in a common house, but I lost my billet because I came home late one time too many. I like walking the streets at night, so that's not so bad, but finding a place to sleep during the day has been difficult." He folded his hands on his lap.

"Last night," Maxwell continued, "it rained, as you probably noticed. I was hunkered down in a doorway, weathering a squall, when I heard a sound. It was distant, but piercing. Eventually, I decided it was a howl."

"Horrible," Clark said.

"No," Maxwell said. "Not Horrible. Another dog, a bigger dog. I could see him from where I was camped out, sitting near a streetlamp. This was back near the waterfront, close to the docks, the small warehouses out by-"

"I know where you mean," Clark said. "The police told me."

"Okay, fine. The bigger dog was sitting under a streetlight, his head back, howling. I went over to check it out, to make sure no one was hurt. When I got close enough for him to notice me, the howling stopped. This dog, he was a healthy specimen, probably forty kilos or more. Big. Head like a cement block. Couldn't tell what breed, but powerful looking." Maxwell paused, interrupting his narrative. "Did you grow up with dogs?"

"Yes," Clark said. "My father loved dogs. We always had at least one. Did you?"

"No," Maxwell said. "There was a succession of cats that hung around our house whenever my mother was on sh.o.r.e for more than a few days, but that was mostly because we always had fresh fish. They were like our garbage collectors. But dogs?" He shook his head. "So, honestly, I'm a little cautious with dogs. And this fellow looked like the kind of dog that was accustomed to having his way. He watched me as I came closer, the rain running off his head and dripping down his back. He waited until I was within a few meters, and then he looked down at the street, at the curb. He stood up and pointed his nose at the grate where the rainwater was rus.h.i.+ng down. Then, he looked at me like, I swear to you, like he was saying, 'Okay, this is yours now. I'm going home.' And then he turned away and trotted off down the street."

"And you looked down into the grate?"

"Yes."

"And there was Horrible."

"Yes."

"How did you get him out?"

"It wasn't easy. I had to remove the drain cover, which must have set off some kind of sensor, which is probably why the police came to investigate. Apparently, there've been some burglaries in the area. One of the break-ins must have been through the sewer system."

"I'll take your word for that. How did you get the grate off? That must have been a challenge."

"I had a probe," Maxwell explained. "And the clamps holding the grate in place were worn."

"A probe?" Clark asked. "You mean you had exactly the kind of tool a burglar might carry?"

Maxwell shrugged. "That, more or less, is what the police officer said."

"My question would be, why didn't he also arrest you?"

"I think it's because my story held up."

"Your story?"

"Yes, my story: that I was rescuing a dog from a sewer."

"Why would he believe that?"

"Mostly because I had a dog dangling from my hand." He held up his left hand, the one with the recently repaired skin. "When I reached down to get him, the d.a.m.ned dog must have decided that the best way to get out of the sewer was to grab hold and not let go. When the police arrived, I was sitting on the curb trying to pry his mouth open."

Clark pondered the image. "Ow."

"Yes," Maxwell agreed. "Fortunately, his teeth weren't sharp enough to break the skin. Or maybe he was just being careful."

"Soft mouth."

"Huh? In any case, they got Horrible to let go at the station when they offered him food. They bandaged up my hand, and then I visited the infirmary this morning." He flexed his fingers. "Good as new." Maxwell waved his hands like a performer concluding his act. "End of story."

"All right," Clark said. "That explains last night. Now get to the part about why you're back here in Auckland living what might generously be called 'a vagabond existence.' "

"I told you," Maxwell said. "I wanted a beer."

"They have beer in other cities," Clark said. "Indeed, in most cities. On most planets, I've been told."

"Not Klingon planets. It makes them ga.s.sy, which is not something you want to be around."

"Ben," Clark said, "the last we spoke, you decided it was time to go back to work, back to s.p.a.ce. My memory may be dim due to extreme exhaustion, but my recollection is that you greeted the idea enthusiastically."

Maxwell crossed his arms over his chest and looked away. "It didn't work out."

"I know. I did some checking. Though I may argue with your definition of 'didn't work out.' You saved the lives of all of the people on that s.h.i.+p."

"Yes," Maxwell said, "but not the pirates."

"Not the pirates?"

"Right."

"Why did you think you should have saved the pirates?"

"Not save them. I don't think I should have saved them. Just found a way to avoid killing them."

Clark let the statement linger in the air for a long moment. Then he asked, "Do you think that was even possible?"

Maxwell shrugged. "Everything's possible."

"Probable, then?"

"I don't know. That's the point. I couldn't figure out a way."

"And if you couldn't, Ben Maxwell, former stars.h.i.+p captain and ace pilot, if you couldn't, then who could?"

Maxwell turned to look down at Horrible. "That's not the point," he muttered. "The point is that I decided I didn't like being in a situation where there was the possibility I might have to make that kind of decision. I did what I had to do, but I don't want to have to make that choice again."

"You told me once," Clark said, "that what you wanted more than anything was to serve again. I remember that phrase very distinctly: 'to serve.' What is service if not being in a position to save lives if you have the ability to do so?"

Maxwell did not reply. He was staring down at the dog, who was now lightly snoring.

"You still haven't said why you came back to Auckland. And please don't say it was to have a beer. I saw the tox screens from the police report. You haven't had a drink in days. Probably more like weeks."

"No," Maxwell said. "I mean, not for a while. I had one and then I called you, like I had planned."

"Yes, I recall. We had a pleasant chat. I take it you hadn't originally called to have a pleasant chat."

"No," Maxwell admitted. He rubbed the new, pink flesh on his left hand with the fingers of his right. "I called planning to tell you that you're a terrible therapist."

Despite himself, Clark laughed. He had been prepared for a lot of different responses, but this had not been one of them. "Okay," he said, noting that Maxwell was not at all amused, "please explain, why am I a terrible therapist?"

"Because you let me leave here. You let me leave after I built those stupid robotic legs, which were specifically engineered so that you'd think, Oh, he's all better now. You released me back out into the world even though I'm still . . ." Maxwell couldn't look Clark in the eye when he finished the sentence. Instead, he locked eyes on the dog. ". . . still broken," he finished, practically spitting out the word. Having had his say, he laid his hands on his legs and turned his gaze on Clark. His posture said, "Prove me wrong."

Clark sat still. He badly wanted to cross his legs or clear his throat or tap together the tips of his fingers, but he knew Maxwell might misinterpret any of those gestures as signs of weakness or surrender. Instead, he pointed out the window, which faced the ocean. "Broken," he said. "Interesting choice of words. And speaking of those robot legs, they're still out there. Still walking around. They tend to stay away from the beach, probably because you programmed them to be careful about stepping on people. Yes?"

Maxwell nodded.

"So, they tend to wander around a little way offsh.o.r.e. Tourists like to try to sail near enough to touch them."

"They shouldn't be able to do that," Maxwell said, mildly alarmed. "I made sure-"

"No one does. Or no one has yet. As soon as a boat gets close, the legs either stride off or go too close to sh.o.r.e for the boat to follow. You should see it. I swear the legs look like they're playing a game, like a dog with a ball it doesn't want anyone to have. You know that about dogs, don't you? How some of them don't like to give the ball back after they get it?"

Maxwell nodded, one eyebrow arched.

"I never saw the giant robot legs," Clark resumed, "as a sign that you were 'cured.' The effort required to project that illusion-that was significant and I thought it was a good sign. If nothing else, the legs were a sign that you were ready to go. Somewhere. Anywhere but here. You'd been here too long." He allowed himself the relief of crossing his legs. "And I'm sorry, Ben, truly sorry if I let you leave thinking you had somehow been fixed-as in, no longer broken. Psychiatry, therapy, psychoa.n.a.lytics-whatever you want to call it-doesn't work that way. You'll always be broken. Or have been broken. Some terrible things happened to you. And, perhaps as a result, you did a terrible thing."

"Perhaps?" Maxwell asked.

"The mind," Clark said, "or, more precisely, the psyche is not a series of pulleys and switches. It isn't as simple as tug on this thread and here's the apple cart getting upended. And snipping that thread doesn't mean the apple cart will never be upended again. The best we can hope for is to make sure the individual has a modic.u.m of self-awareness, enough so that they might think twice before putting themselves in a situation where there's an exposed thread or an apple cart that can be tipped and if they do, give them the tools to deal with it."

Maxwell said, "I had hoped for more."

"You got more," Clark said flatly. "You saved an entire s.h.i.+p full of people, and when you felt that something was wrong, you had the good sense to come back here-"

"To tell you that you're a terrible therapist."

"And give me the pleasure of proving you wrong." Clark folded his hands in his lap.

Maxwell sat for a time and stared at Clark. Then he s.h.i.+fted his gaze and studied Horrible, who had opened his eyes and was blankly staring back. Horrible lost interest and performed some personal grooming. He fell back to sleep. Maxwell rose, walked to the window, and looked out toward the ocean for a time, probably waiting to see if the robot legs would wander into view, but, obstinately, they did not.

Maxwell turned back, saying, "I need to find something else to do."

"Yes," Clark said. "I've been thinking about that. Perhaps it's your use of the word broken, but you've got me thinking about an old colleague of mine. Well, I should be honest: a better word to describe him would be patient. Or a little of both. He has some problems with grandiosity."

"Lovely. Sounds like I'd hate him."

"You would. Everyone does eventually. But that doesn't mean he doesn't need your help. Anatoly breaks things a lot, and I can't help but think he could use help from someone like you."

"Like me?"

"Someone who likes to fix broken things."

Maxwell considered for just a moment and then asked, "Where is he?"

"Far away. Very far away. Even by your standards."

"Sounds nice," Maxwell said. "Do you think they'll let me bring my dog?"