Watson, Ian - Novel 10 Read Online Free Page A

indeed — but they are not
outside of the community. In a real sense they are its heart. The dying are often happy to share their experiences ...”
                 ‘More
work,’ thought Jim wryly: more open-house seminars for the public, in addition
to the school and TV presentations. Conducted discreetly, of
course. Sensitively. Without
infringing the right to privacy of any of the clients. But still, more
work . . .
                 Mentally,
he rapped himself over the knuckles for pride and selfishness.
                 “The
alternative is to harbour murder in
one’s bosom — and we’ve seen what comes of that today. The person who denies
death is someone who mentally destroys the world for others. As Norman Harper
wrote elsewhere in his Book of Death ,
‘ You should go gently into that good night . . .’ ”
                 “I
told you he could be a guide,” said Marta.
                 “He’s
using the event.”
                 “On
the contrary, he’s defusing it. He’s
preventing a domino effect. Don’t you realize how dangerous this is? It’s the
first violence there’s been on any screen for years! How many kids have had
their feelings scrambled by what they saw today? And how about all the poor,
disturbed people who have trouble adjusting in any case? It was a direct attack
on . . . everything.”
                 “Do
you think it was planned as such?”
                 “Of course not.”
                 “In
that case, you’re exaggerating. A few people still do murder other people. It
happens in the cities, you know. The murder rate is very, very low, and
falling. But it isn’t zero.”
                 “And
it never should be news. Not one
single killing should be news.”
                 Jim
shrugged. “This one is.”
                 Marta
moved closer to him, and touched his arm.
                 He
said gently, “I can’t banish this from you, you know? I’d be taking the place
of Death, if I tried. But Death isn’t anyone — neither seducer, nor executioner.”
                 She
drew back suddenly.
                 “That
may be your interpretation of my feelings. I find it rather insulting.”
                 “Even
so, it’s what you feel.”
                 She
looked down at the yellow and brown carpet-tiles.
                 “You’re
a clever guide,” she said. “Perceptive. I guess you must have helped one or two
women clients in your time — by proving that the Seducer is only human?
Anyhow,” she rushed on, not wanting to hear the answer, “what did you mean by
muttering ‘doggerel’ in the middle of Norman ’s poem?”
                 “Nothing, really.”
                 “No,
tell me.”
                 Jim
realized that Marta had achieved a hold over him — an option on his private
feelings — which was unfortunate on such brief acquaintance, though it was
partly his own fault. It was as though the gunshots had briefly stripped them
both naked to each other; and now they remembered each other’s nakedness.
                 “It’s
just that so many valuable things did spring from our death anxieties in the past. So much
philosophy. So much art.”
                 “Therefore Norman ’s poetry isn’t really art, because he
wasn’t anxious? What an ambivalent character you are!”
                 “Do
you mean ‘two-faced’? You have to identify with the people you guide, before
they can identify with you. Even when they’re angry or
hostile to start with. Even when they’re just protesting. . . at the general lack of protest.”
                 “Why
did they really transfer you here
from Gracchus?”
                 Jim
was saved from answering her by the warble of the telephone. As Jim switched
off the TV