Free The Dream Master by Roger Zelazny Page B

good taste to speak of people as though they were absent,” said Peter.
    “True,” said Render, “but good taste is not always in good taste.”
    “You make it sound as though someone owes somebody an apology,” he noted.
    “That is a matter which the individual must decide for himself, or it is without value.”
    “In that case,” he observed, “I’ve just decided that I don’t owe anybody an apology. If anybody owes me one though, I’ll accept it like a gentleman, and in good taste.”
    Render stood, stared down at his son.
    “Peter—” he began.
    “May I have some more punch?” asked Jill. “It’s quite good, and mine is all gone.”
    Render reached for the cup.
    “I’ll get it,” said Peter.
    He took the cup and stirred the punch with its crystal ladle. Then he rose to his feet, leaning one elbow on the back of his chair.
    “Peter!”
    He slipped.
    The cup and its contents fell into Jill’s lap. The contents ran in strawberry tracery through the white fur of her coat. The cup rolled to the sofa, coming to rest in the center of a widening stain.
    Peter cried and seized his ankle, sitting down on the floor.
    The guest-buzzer sounded.
    Render mentioned a long medical term, in Latin. He stooped then and took his son’s foot in one hand, his ankle in the other.
    “Does this hurt?”
    “Yes!”
    “This?”
    “Yes! It hurts all over!”
    “How about this?”
    “Along the side… There!”
    Render helped him to his feet, held him balanced on his sound foot, reached for his crutches.
    “Come on. Along with me. Dr. Heydell has a hobby-lab in his apartment, downstairs. That fast-cast is coming off. I want to X-ray the foot again.”
    “No! It’s not—”
    “What about my coat?” said Jill.
    The buzzer sounded again.
    “Damn everything!” announced Render, and he pushed the call-dot.
    “Yes! Who is it?”
    There came a sound of breathing.
    Then, “Uh, it’s me, boss. Did I pick a bad time?”
    “Bennie! No, listen—I didn’t mean to snap at you, but all hell’s just broken loose. Come on up. By the time you get here things will be normal and unhectic again.”
    “… Okay, if you’re sure it’s all right, that is. I just wanted to stop in for a minute. I’m on my way to somewhere else.”
    “Sure thing. Here’s the door.”
    He tapped the other circle.
    “You stay here and let her in, Jill. Well be back in a few minutes.”
    “What about my coat? And the sofa…?”
    “All in good time. Don’t worry. C’mon, Pete.”
    He guided him out into the hall, where they entered an elevator and directed it to the sixth floor. On the way down, their elevator sighed past Bennie’s, on its way up.
    The door clicked. Before it could open though, Render pressed the “Hold” button.
    “Peter,” he said, “why are you acting like a snotty adolescent?”
    Peter wiped his eyes.
    “Hell, I’m pre-puberty,” he said, “and as for being snotty…”
    He blew his nose.
    Render’s hand began to rise, fell back again.
    He sighed.
    “We’ll discuss it later.”
    He released the “Hold” button and the door slid open.
    Dr. Heydell’s suite was located at the end of the corridor. A large wreathe of evergreen and pine cones hung upon the door, encircling its brass knocker.
    Render raised the knocker and let it fall.
    From within, there came the faint sounds of Christmas music. After a moment, there was a footfall on the other side, and the door opened.
    Dr. Heydell stood before them, looking up from behind thick glasses.
    “Well, carolers,” he announced in a deep voice. “Come in, Charles, and…?”
    “My son, Peter,” said Render.
    “Glad to meet you, Peter,” said Heydell. “Come in and join the party.”
    He drew the door all the way open and stepped aside.
    They entered into a blast of Christmas, and Render explained, “We had a little accident upstairs. Peter’s ankle was broken a short time ago, and he fell on it again just now. I’d like to use your X-ray to check it