Green Eyes Page 0,36

she said, and was surprised at the buoyancy she felt on saying it.

'The day Magnusson died,' he said, 'I went down to a little room next to the lab and watched them chop him up.'

'You couldn't have,' she said, coming to her feet.

'The usual heavy infestation of the visual cortex,' he said. 'Remarkable changes in the ventral tegumentum.'

She started to go to him, but then she thought how he must despise her for lying, and she sat back down, heavy with guilt.

He picked up a paper sack from the windowledge and walked to the bed. 'I'm going to do something about it. It's all right.'

'I'm sorry.' The foolish sound of the words caused her to laugh, and the bitter laugh dynamited the stoniness of her guilt and left her shaky.

'Magnusson gave me his notes before he died,' he said. 'I think there's a chance I can use them to prolong my life. I'm not sure, but I'll never find out here. I'm going to leave.'

'You can't!'

'Sure I can.' He plucked a set of keys out of the paper sack: she recognized them as the standard set issued to orderlies, keys to the vans and the pantry and various other rooms. 'The staff is in conference,' he said. 'The orderlies are playing poker in the lab. None of the phones or cameras are working. And the gate.' He smiled. 'It's taken care of, too.'

His arguments were smooth, logical, insistent. He had, he said, a right to go where he chose, to spend his time as he wished. What was the future in remaining here to be probed and tested and eventually dissected? He needed her help. Where did her true responsibilities lie? To herself, to him, or to the project? She had no contrary argument, but the thought of being cast adrift with him made her afraid.

'If you're worried about my loss to the scientific community,' he said, 'I can assure I'm not going to co-operate anymore.'

'It's not that,' she said, hurt. 'I'm just not sure what's right, and I don't think you are either.'

'Right? Christ!' He lifted a small tape recorder out of the sack; the cassette within it bore Edman's handwriting on the label. 'Listen to this.'

'Where'd you get that?'

'Edman's office. I told him I wanted to see how life looked from inside a crystal ball. It thrilled his tiny soul to have the beast sniffing round his pantry. These were lying about like party favors on the shelves, so I collected a few.' He punched down the play switch, and Edman's voice blatted from the speaker:

'April 27th... (a couch)... Despite all reason to the contrary, romance blooms between Harrison and Verret. I expect one morning I will walk onto the grounds and find a valentine containing their initials carved upon an oak. I've today received the package of information concerning Verret's divorce proceeding. In layman's terms, it might be said that Verret seems to have a penchant for losers. Her husband, one Charles Messier, a musician; apparently misused her physically: the divorce was granted on the grounds of physical and mental cruelty. I haven't had time to study it in detail, but there are obvious similarities between the two men. Artistic avocation, both four or five years older than Verret, a general physical resemblance. Of course I am not yet clear how large a part these similarities play in what is now transpiring, but I am convinced we will soon begin to learn. The relationship is, I believe, at a stage of breakthrough... (a sigh)... I must admit to feelings of paternity toward Harrison and Verret in that I have served as their matchmaker... (a laugh)... It does not seem wholly improbable that we may one day be treated to the pageant of a nuptial, one of those such are consummated between prisoners and their loving correspondents - or, more aptly, between terminal patients and their fianc6es. I can easily imagine it. Verret, beautiful in white beneath the arching oaks. Harrison, his eyes ablaze, the lustful groom. And the priest intoning sonorously, "What Ezawa hath joined, let no man put asunder...'"

'Is that right?' Donnell smashed down the off switch. 'To have this fat vulture perch in his crystal cave and drool over our libidos!'

Jocundra ejected the cassette and read Edman's inscription: 'Harrison, Verret - XVII.' She turned it over in her hand; it was like holding a jar containing her appendix, a useless organ which once had poisoned her, but was now trivial, powerless. Leaving offered no secure