Free A Scatter of Stardust by E. C. Tubb Page B

established his delusion.” He looked at me through the smoke of his cigarette.
    “He refuses to work here any longer. We can’t force him. We can keep him here, yes, but only as an idiot. We don’t want that. We want the genius of his mind, and to get it we have to play things his way. We have to let him go so that he can work where he likes and when he likes, but we daren’t let him go unprotected. So we want you to stay with him as both friend and bodyguard. You keep him working, you pass on his findings and, above all, you keep him happy.” He sighed. “I know that it sounds crazy, but if you know a better answer I’d be glad to hear it.”
    I had no suggestions, only a question. “Does he give any reason for wanting to leave here?”
    “Yes.” Cottrell was bitter. “He says that this is no place in which to bring up a young girl. He’s perfectly right, of course, and as we’ve got to humor his delusion, we have no choice but to let him go.”
    “And,” said the colonel, “we want you to go with him.”
    *
    At first things were a little stiff. The professor liked me, yes, but he was not used to having me around, and it was important to break down the barriers of his isolation. The way I did it was to make friends with Ginney.
    She was ten years old, a cute blonde with long, plaited hair, a freckled face and cheeky blue eyes. She had been around quite a bit, was full of the devil and loved fun. She also liked plenty of conversation.
    She had been dead for six months.
    It wasn’t easy to make friends with a ghost. I studied her photographs until I saw her in my sleep. I watched the professor until I knew just how she looked to him. I made myself imagine her, talk to her, listen to her answers and then talk some more. I memorized her history so that we’d have points in common, and all the time I had to guard against a single slip which would have destroyed the professor’s trust in me. That in itself wasn’t too important, but I dared not injure his belief in his delusion. It was the only thing which kept him sane.
    I passed the major hurdle one night in a little hotel near the border. We had been traveling south because, as the professor said, Ginney needed the sun. I shared a room with the professor. Another had been booked for Ginney, and he was getting her ready for bed. I’d watched the play a dozen times, the undressing and putting on of the nightclothes, the undoing of the ribbons and the brushing of the hair. I sat and watched as his hands, thin with thick blue veins, the fingers long and sensitive, clutched the invisible brush and smoothed the invisible hair. I leaned forward.
    “Let me do that.”
    “You?” He hesitated, a flicker of doubt in his eyes.
    “Why not?” I grinned, not at him. “You don’t mind me brushing your hair, do you, Ginney?” I pretended to listen, then snorted. “Of course I won’t hurt you. I brush my own hair every day and I’m an expert.” My smile grew wider. “Look, I’ll tell you what. If I catch a snag I’ll tell you a bedtime story. Right?”
    I listened, nodded, reached for the brush.
    For a moment I thought that it wasn’t going to work. The professor hesitated, moving his hand beyond my reach, the doubt growing in his eyes. Then, very slowly, he moved his hand back toward me.
    I took the brush from his hand. I caught hold of Ginney and made her stand in front of me. I turned her and, carefully, I began to brush her hair.
    It was the hardest thing I have ever done.
    Because it wasn’t enough to playact. I had to really brush the hair of a real girl, and that meant it wasn’t enough just to pass the brush through the air. I had to turn it, to drag it, to move on the same plane, to avoid snags and to follow the contours of a head. I had to do that and, at the same time, control the wriggling of a cheeky ten year old. I had to do all this while being watched by a man who had based his sanity on a delusion which I was helping to maintain. A good