Free Fool's Run (v1.1) by Patricia A. McKillip Page B

called cheerfully. “Back to the salt mines.”
    The Magician put his glass down. “You staying awhile, Aaron?”
    Aaron shook his head, draining his Scotch. “Not tonight. Too noisy. I’ll drop by the Flying Wail soon, see how you’re doing with that receiver.”
    “Thanks.” He made a movement to turn, then didn’t. “You all right?”
    “Yes,” Aaron said, feeling his face stiffen. “Thanks. Just tired.”
    He watched the Magician cross the floor, lost sight of him in the crowds, then found him again, taking his place on the stage. A cataract of purple fell; Nova dissolved into light, and Aaron caught his breath at the sudden, powerful and absurd vision of the light as an alien thing that had just reached down and hidden them forever somewhere within the secret worlds and mysterious, overlapping times beyond the Earth.
    His fingers were digging into the muscles of his arms. He dropped his hands, wondering at himself. Too many dead-end messages in the bomb shelter? Too little sleep, too many dreams in a lonely bed? He found Sidney watching him gravely. He smiled wryly and picked up a black rose.
    “Maybe I should use one of these.”
    “Talk to Quasar,” Sidney suggested.
    “No. I prefer anonymity, these days.” He brooded at the room through narrowed, critical eyes, then shrugged, feeling boredom pull at his bones like gravity. He faked a yawn, wanting to go sit in the silent shelter, make more lists, search out new leads. “Tired tonight. I’ve been working overtime.”
    “Aaron, is something bother—”
    “I’m fine, I just—” He stopped, alarmed at his own response to an unexpected voice-tone.

    He drew away from the bar, away from Sidney’s puzzled, generous impulse. “Sometimes it’s too much trouble. I’m just tired, thanks. Good night.”
    He eased quickly through the tangle of faces, perfumes, metallic fabrics, body paints, voices; he murmured greetings, steadied a drunk, sidestepped lovers and robot waiters. He reached the door finally and was halfway into the night when he realized he was holding something. It bit his thumb. His hand jerked and he breathed in a light, elusive scent. He stopped, blinking.
    Someone had given him a living rose.

SIX
    Okay,” Dr. Fiori said, wiping bloodshot eyes with his fingers. “Okay, okay, okay. We can never be certain. We can never know that what we’re seeing is precisely what she’s thinking. But you have to admit it’s hard to say ‘roast beef’ and think of an elephant simultaneously.”
    “Then why,” Reina asked, “is she giving you a red sun?”
    “I asked for red.”
    “Why not a fire?”
    “Because she’s crazy.”
    “Then how…” She paused, confused, her mouth open. Terra, curled in the curve of her bubble-chamber, heard their words disinterestedly. Dr. Fiori sighed.
    “I’m sorry. That was a stupid answer. Of course her responses will be somewhat distorted on the screen, and we can’t know how distorted. But I asked for red and she thought red. The Dream Machine showed that she thought red. That’s what’s important. The Dream Machine picked up her brain responses for the word red and recorded them. It is working.”
    They both looked up at the prisoner, the young woman at the console in her sleek silver uniform, with her curious eyes and her painted mouth still open, and the rumpled doctor who had driven his hair up in spikes with his fingers.
    “There’s nothing wrong with her that I can find,” Dr. Fiori added. “No lesions, no chemical imbalances, no growths, no peculiarity in the communication between the two sides of her brain. She should be perfectly healthy. The only aberration any of the tests have located is what I suppose we might call a ‘brainstorm.’ An excitation of electrical impulses with no apparent purpose or result. I’ve never seen anything quite like it… But these come at intervals; between them, there’s no reason why she is not aware and lucid. Instead she seems addicted to these