Free Watson, Ian - Novel 10 by Deathhunter (v1.1) Page B

death produce good poetry?’’ asked Jim. He realized that he had gone too
far; he must be rather drunk too.

           NINE
     
                 “So how do you go about building a cage
for Death, Nathan? I’m perfectly serious. I want to help you build one. I have
to see this with my own eyes.”
                 “Don’t
patronize me.”
                 Jim
had not expected instant gratitude. Deep down, Weinberger probably did not
believe that his cage would work. Jim’s instinct had been right: build the
cage, use it, prove it useless — then Weinberger would be free of his delusion.
                 Weinberger
had changed the scene in the wall screen. In one way, this was a bad sign.
Dying people, who had accepted their death, tended to absorb themselves wholly
in a single landscape of choice: a landscape, of course, without human
characters or any living creatures, a landscape of eternal vegetative nature,
or better still, pure ocean.
                 The
new scene was arctic, as though its coldness might act to slow down the decay
of Weinberger’s body. Great white icebergs like mountainous teeth — molars and
incisors — floated in blue fluoride waters. The scene was sterile and aseptic,
and beautiful too. It also conveyed a certain frozen violence: of icy jaws,
locked in a total stoppage of time. If those jaws were ever to move, what a
grinding and crashing there would be! But they couldn’t, and didn’t. So all was serene. Which was, perhaps, a
good sign.
                 “I
am certainly not patronising you.”
                 “No?
Well, Mr Todhunter, let’s just prove it, hmm?”
                 “I’ll
prove it one way, right now. I’ll tell you a secret. Noel Resnick has given me
absolute carte blanche to handle your
case — so that you can work things through and see the light.”
                 ‘The
arctic light,’ thought Jim. ‘The everlasting stillness and
silence of the ice wastes where nothing lives . . . (Untrue! Fish live
there, and seals, and great whales ... Do any equivalent creatures inhabit the
realm of death? Is that what Nathan imagines?)’ “That’s how 1 can go along with
you. And equally, here’s your chance, because I’m going to use that carte blanche to the full.’’ The sick man
licked his lips. “They won’t like it.’’
                 “They
needn’t know, particularly. Of course, we can’t do it here. This room’s unsuitable, what with attendants and nurses
dropping in. I’ll commandeer a spare room in the basement.’’ Weinberger’s face
drained of trust.
                 “1
won’t be fooled by a masquerade. Me locked up here, you in the basement — so
you say.’’
                 “I’ll
take you down there along with me. I’ll obey all your directions. Anything you
want from outside, I’ll fetch. Any other equipment you need, I’ll get hold of
somehow.’’
                 Jim
stuck out his hand.
                 “Is
it a deal?’’
                 Weinberger’s
grip was surprisingly strong. It felt as though he was diverting all the
remaining strength of his body into his right hand, in order to grasp something
beyond Jim’s own hand: something invisible, elusive and mighty.
                 Weinberger
grinned. “You can’t make deals with Death. But you can catch it, and clobber
it.”
                 “Whatever you say. And 1 mean that.”
                 One
week later, Jim stood in the blue-painted basement room with Weinberger, surveying
the ‘machine’ which he had assembled according to the dying man’s directions,
and with his occasional assistance.
                 Apart
from the cage and a pair of chairs, the room was bare. It was the same
experimental room that Resnick had told him about. Soundproofing baffles
scalloped and fluted the