The Sound of Silence Read online

backbone. For a second she stood ongray moss, under a gray sky, in the midst of a gray silence. "He notonly could walk alone, he had to. Do you remember what your booksaid?"

  "Only the fittest survive," Lucilla said numbly. "Because they have tofight the climate ... and their natural enemies ... and their ownkind." She swung her feet to the floor and pushed herself into asitting position. "I'm not a ... a mutation. I'm not, I'm not, I'mNOT, and you can't say I am, because I won't listen!"

  "I didn't say you were." There was the barest hint of emphasis on thefirst word. Lucilla was almost certain she heard a whisper oflaughter, but he met her gaze blandly, his expression completelyserious.

  "Don't you dare laugh!" she said, nonetheless. "There's nothing funnyabout ... about...."

  "About being able to read people's minds," Dr Andrews said helpfully."You'd much rather have me offer some other explanation for theoccurrences that bother you so--is that it?"

  "I guess so. Yes, it is. A brain tumor. Or schizophrenia. Or anythingat all that could maybe be cured, so I could marry Paul and havechildren and be like everybody else. Like you." She looked past him tothe picture on his desk. "It's easy for you to talk."

  He ignored the last statement. "Why can't you get married, anyway?"

  "You've already said why. Because Paul would hate me--everybody wouldhate me--if they knew I was different."

  "How would they know? It doesn't show. Now if you had three legs, or along bushy tail, or outsized teeth...."

  Lucilla smiled involuntarily, and then was furious at herself fordoing so and at Dr Andrews for provoking her into it. "This wholething is utterly asinine, anyhow. Here we are, talking as if I mightreally be a mutant, and you know perfectly well that I'm not."

  "Do I? You made the diagnosis, Lucilla, and you've given me somemighty potent reasons for believing it ... can you give me equallygood reasons for doubting that you're a telepath?"

  * * * * *

  The peremptory demand left Lucilla speechless for a moment. She gropedblindly for an answer, then almost laughed aloud as she found it.

  "But of course. I almost missed it, even after you practically drew mea diagram. If I could read minds, just as soon as anybody found itout, he'd be afraid of me, or hate me, like the book said, and yousaid, too. If you believed it, you'd do something like having melocked up in a hospital, maybe, instead of...."

  "Instead of what, Lucilla?"

  "Instead of being patient, and nice, and helping me see how silly I'vebeen." She reached out impulsively to touch his hand, then withdrewher own, feeling somewhat foolish when he made no move to respond.Her relief was too great, however, to be contained in silence. "Wayback the first time I came in, almost, you said that before wefinished therapy, you'd know me better than I knew myself. I didn'tbelieve you--maybe I didn't want to--but I begin to think you wereright. Lot of times, lately, you've answered a question before I evenasked it. Sometimes you haven't even bothered to answer--you've justsat there in your big brown chair and I've lain here on the couch, andwe've gone through something together without using words at all...."She had started out almost gaily, the words spilling over each otherin their rush to be said, but bit by bit she slowed down, thenfaltered to a stop. After she had stopped talking altogether, shecould still hear her last few phrases, repeated over and over, like anecho that refused to die. (Answered ... before I even asked ...without using words at all ... without using words....)

  She could almost taste the terror that clogged her throat and dried herlips. "You do believe it. And you could have me locked up. Only ...only...." Fragments of thought, splinters of words, and droplets ofsilence spun into a kaleidoscopic jumble, shifted infinitesimally, andfell into an incredible new pattern. Understanding displaced terror andwas, in turn, displaced by indignation. She stared accusingly at herinterrogator. "But you look just like ... just like anybody."

  "You expected perhaps three legs or a long bushy tail or teeth likethat textbook tiger?"

  "And you're a psychiatrist!"

  "What else? Would you have talked to me like this across a grocerycounter, Lucilla? Or listened to me, if I'd been driving a bus orfilling a prescription? Would I have found the others in a bowlingalley or a business office?"

  "Then there are ... others?" She let out her breath on a long sighinvoluntarily glancing again at the framed picture. "Only I love Paul,and he isn't ... he can't...."

  "Nor can Carol." His eyes were steady on hers, yet she felt as if hewere looking through and beyond her. For no reason at all, shestrained her ears for the sound of footsteps or the summons of avoice. "Where do you suppose the second little blob of protoplasm withlegs came from?" Dr. Andrews asked. "And the third? If that ape whofound he could stand erect had walked lonesomely off into the sunsetlike a second-rate actor on a late, late show, where do you supposeyou'd be today?"

  He broke off abruptly and watched with Lucilla as the office dooredged open. The small girl who inched her way around it wore bluejeans and a pony tail rather than an organdy frock and curls, but herpixie smile matched that of the girl in the photograph Lucilla hadglanced at again and again.

  "You wanted me, Daddy?" she asked, but she looked toward Lucilla.

  "I thought you'd like to meet someone with the same nickname asyours," Dr. Andrews said, rising to greet her. "Lucky, meet Lucky."

  "Hello," the child said, then her smile widened. "Hello!" (But I don'thave to say it, do I? I can talk to you just the way I talk to Daddyand Uncle Whitney and Big Bill).

  "Hello yourself," said Lucilla. This time when the corners of hermouth began to tick upward, she made no attempt to stop them. (Ofcourse you can, darling. And I can answer you the same way, and you'llhear me.)

  Dr. Andrews reached for the open pack of cigarettes on his deck. (Isthis strictly a private conversation, girls, or can I get in on it,too?)

  (It's unpolite to interrupt, Daddy.)

  (He's not exactly interrupting--it was his conversation to beginwith!)

  Dr. Andrews' receptionist paused briefly beside the still-open officedoor. None of them heard either her gentle rap or the soft click ofthe latch slipping into place when she pushed the door shut.

  Nor did she hear them.

  * * * * *