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library. In a moment you will see the piles of books on the tables near by. There are several books on
your desk. There's a big book just in front of you. Now the candle is close enough."
"Close," murmured Paul.
The hair on Patrick's scalp was rising. The odor of lilacs was stifling. And he then noticed that the lilacs
were opening, all around him. He somehow realized that lilacs do not bloom in minutes. It was a
botanical impossibility. He could almost hear the tender calyxes folding back.
Fast continued, "You are opening the front cover. You are looking at the title page. It is typewritten. It
is a thesis. You are able to read everything. You can see the name clearly. The name of the student is-- "
Patrick heard gasps behind him, and his eyes suddenly came into focus. Beyond Paul, on the far edge
of the stone table, beyond the candle, he saw the two figures. They were wavering, silent, indistinct, but
they were there. The larger one would just about reach his chin. The eyes of the small one came barely to
the table edge.
He wanted to scream, but nothing would come out of his throat.
The taller figure was leaning over the table towards Paul, and she was holding something... an open
book. But neither figure was looking at Paul. Both of them were looking at him. He knew them.
In this frozen moment his nose twitched. The scent of lilacs wavered, then was suddenly smothered by
something sharp, acrid. Patrick recognized it, without thinking. It was ozone. And as if in confirmation of
its olfactory trademark, a luminous... thing... was taking shape behind the two figures. Suddenly it
acquired a face, then eyes. Then arms, reaching out, encircling.
Patrick had a horrid, instantaneous flash of recognition. The portrait in John Fast's office.
Mephistopheles taking Faust.
"The name of the student is Lilas Blanc," said Paul Bleeker metallically. "State U-- "
"Oh, God, NO!" screamed Patrick.
The candle blew out instantly. Paul struggled in his chair. "Hey, what... where?" he knocked the chair
over getting up.
The voices rose up around Patrick in the darkness.
He dropped in a groaning heap on the grass. "Lilas, Shan, forgive me. I didn't know." But he must
have known. All along.
And now his mind began to swing like a pendulum, faster and faster, finally oscillating in a weird
rhythm of patterns so bewildering and contradictory that he could hardly follow them. His mind said to
him, they escaped. It said to him, they did not escape. It said to him, they were there. It said, nothing was
there. And then it started again. His throat constricted, his teeth bit the turf, and by brazen command his
thoughts slowed their wounded flailing. He ceased to ask, to wonder. And finally he refused to think at
all.
He heard Cord's firm voice. Somebody found the light switch. There were querulous whispers. And
then there was something on his back. Some of them had dropped their jackets on him. A man's hand
lingered briefly on his shoulder. It was a gentle, even affectionate gesture, and he recognized the touch as
that of a man accustomed to tucking small children into their beds at night. He had used the same touch,
many times, and long ago.
And now the sound of footsteps fading. And then, motors starting. And finally nothing, just the splash
of the little falls, the crickets, and far away, the whippoorwill.
 He did not want to move. He wanted only never to have been born.
He closed his eyes, and sleep locked him in.
* * *
* * *
* * *
I hold every man a debtor to his profession; from the which, as men of course do seek to receive
countenance and profit, so ought they of duty to endeavor themselves by way of amends to be a help and
ornament thereunto.
-- Francis Bacon, Preface to Maxims of the Law
* * *
It was early morning, and with the pink of dawn on his cheek, waking was instantaneous. His mind
was clear and serene as he threw the jackets aside and got to his feet. He rubbed his eyes, stretched with
enormous gusto, and walked over to the lily pond. A green frog was sitting on a pad of the yellow lotus,
but jumped in as Patrick bent over to splash water on his face. He dried his face on his shirttail, which
was flopping out over his belt.
The sun was now barely over the little hill, and a shaft of light was slicing into the pond. Patrick
considered this phenomenon briefly, then peered into the bottom of the pool for the refracted beam.
There was some kind of rule of optics-- law of sines. Somebody's law. Check into it. Meanwhile, there
was work to be done. Important work.
He walked into the arbor, picked up the overturned iron chair, sat down at the stone table, and pulled
a pencil and paper pad out of the drawer. After a moment, he began to write; slowly, at first.
"Ex parte Gulliksen revisited. The typewritten college thesis as a prior printed publication. This
decision from the Patent Office Board of Appeals in..."
Then faster and faster. "...essential, of course, that the thesis be available to the public. This
requirement is satisfied by..."
Now, he was writing furiously, and the pages were accumulating.
He was going to make it. Just a question of staying with it, now, and it would give him complete
protection. No need to worry about what to work on after this article, either. He knew he could turn out
a text. No trouble at all. Or even an encyclopedia. Patrick, "Chemical Patent Practice," four volumes. He
could see it now. Red vinyl covers, gilt lettering.
The stack of sheets torn from his pad was now quite bulky. He pushed the pile to the table corner, and
in so doing knocked the bottle and candle unheeding to the ground and into the withering lilacs. Already
he could visualize his "Preface to the First Edition." It should be something special, based perhaps on a
precisely apt quotation. What was that thing from Bacon? He frowned, puzzled. No. There was
something not quite right about that. But never mind. Plenty of others. Somehow, somewhere, there
would be a word for him. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]