Limits… yes, the City, too, had once seemed limitless, thought Noren, looking out from the dim room to the closely grouped towers that blocked most of the night sky. He had thought he could never exhaust the well of knowledge preserved here in the City. He’d thought there could be no need to seek beyond. Even when he’d found that limits did exist, he had told himself he could live within them. He had resolved to play the game because there was no other; he had stopped reaching for what he knew would never come.
Was this strange village woman, who by her reaching took on torment even Stefred felt was excessive, less of a realist than he?
He’d changed so much since his own initiation… but in what direction? How many directions? He knew more, and yet perhaps he’d lost something, too, something besides Talyra. He did not feel like the same person; perhaps he’d lost part of himself. Confused, cold with apprehension he did not understand, he heard his own voice ask, “What if you put me through the full version now? I—I think the time’s come when I need to know what’s in it.”
“Not when you’re burdened by grief, you don’t,” Stefred said gently. “Maybe in a year or two.”
“No,” declared Noren, suddenly very sure of what he was looking for. “Not in a year or two—now.”
*
*
*
He had thought Stefred would be unwilling even to discuss it at a time when he was preoccupied, a time when the Dream Machine was obviously not available in any case. Candidates always had priority for controlled dreaming, and there was always a waiting list of Scholars who’d signed up to experience library dreams through which they could learn more about the Six Worlds. Yet surprisingly, Stefred seemed eager to dissuade him from a decision that could simply have been delayed.
“The part about his wife,” he said. “That would hurt, now, more than you expect; you’d experience it in a very personal way.”
“But he did come to terms with it.”
“Are you thinking you might be helped to do the same?”
“Well, yes, that too,” Noren said, realizing this was true. “But I have something else in mind.” No doubt Stefred assumed that he hadn’t guessed, that he still needed protection from knowledge of his own blameworthiness in what had happened; maybe that was why he’d suddenly averted his eyes, as if stricken by remembrance of something better left unspoken. But if so—if Stefred knew portions of the First Scholar’s memories did deal with the problem of genetic damage—that was all the more reason for proceeding as soon as the equipment was free.
It was unlike Stefred to avoid anyone’s gaze. Normally he was brutally straightforward about harsh reality, thereby inspiring people to rise to the challenge. To be sure, he was expert in masking his feelings for good purpose; but Noren knew all those games and had always found them exhilarating. Now his tone was oddly uncertain. “Noren, it’s not like the first times through,” he said. “You don’t just relive nightmare and wake up with new knowledge. What you gain from the full version is more subtle: emotions, value judgments, that take a lifetime to interpret even after you’ve shared the First Scholar’s view of them. In fact it contains some feelings none of his successors have ever managed to interpret. It’s a harrowing experience. Ideally it should be spread out over many weeks, one step at a time.”
“But you say this village woman, this Lianne, wouldn’t be harmed by getting the whole thing fast, under stress of heresy proceedings.”
“I’m balancing perils. To her, we are liars if we make it seem too simple; and since that may lead her to choose permanent imprisonment through misunderstanding of our aims, she has nothing to lose.”
“Neither have I,” Noren muttered. Then, because Stefred had heard and reacted, he added quickly, “I mean, would I suffer more than I’m already suffering? I’m not going to feel
good
, whatever I do now.”
“No—and I wouldn’t have you believe I’d try to distract you from sorrow that’s natural and unavoidable.”
“I don’t want distraction,” said Noren, thinking that no such aim on Stefred’s part had been implied by any of his comments. “It’s just that I—I have to move on, Stefred. I can’t slip back into the mold, or I’ll end up paralyzed, the way I was at the outpost.”
“There’s risk of something worse than that,” Stefred said with artificial, measured coldness. “You might be thrown into a depression more serious than last year’s, and the recovery could be a good deal slower.”
Perhaps, but last year too Stefred had cautioned him, and had assumed responsibility before the Council when things seemed to be turning out wrong. Yet he had not felt it was wrong for either of them to take risks. Looking at him now, Noren could see plainly that he was deeply troubled. He would consider it his fault if Lianne got hurt, however unavoidable his actions had been in the case. He was not judging objectively in this separate matter—he simply didn’t want another crackup on his conscience.
“You know me better than to warn me away from the truth,” Noren said levelly.
Stefred nodded without answering, and Noren saw, suddenly, that it was unfair to let him bear any part of the accountability for his own future undertakings. “The decision’s mine,” he went on. “As a committed priest I have the right of access to the entire heritage left us by the First Scholar; that’s the rule.”
“It is,” Stefred replied reluctantly, “though I never expected to hear you claim the prerogatives of the priesthood in opposition to me.” He lowered his head, so that his face was hidden, but the pain in his voice was unmistakable.
In confusion and remorse, Noren went to him and touched his shoulder. “Stefred, I’m sorry. We’re both under strain; I shouldn’t even be here tonight. Certainly I shouldn’t be talking about my problems when you’ve got a big one of your own to deal with. But—but I can’t play it both ways. I can’t go on acting a priest’s role without taking full responsibility for what I do. You’re my friend, you always will be. I’m grateful for the way you’ve helped me—and I know what you gambled for my sake when I was too proud to seek help—but I’m not a candidate any more, not even a trainee. You can decide what’s best for Lianne, but not for me. Not any longer.”
For a time Stefred was silent. Then he said, barely audibly. “Do you mean that, Noren? You’re willing to go counter to my advice in this?”
“Yes. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you—I never wanted to. It—it just didn’t come out the way I meant it to.” Like so much else, he thought in misery. Stefred’s friendship had been the one firm thing left to count on.
With evident effort, Stefred smiled. “You haven’t hurt me,” he said. “Did you imagine I’d think less of you for having a mind of your own? It’s what we demand of heretics in the first place, after all.”
“Oh, of course you wanted me to stand out against you while you seemed to be supporting injustice. But—”
“But it’s harder to do when you’re aware my job’s to support you.
“This isn’t just a matter of pride, this time.”
“No. It’s more a matter of growth.”
Startled, Noren felt his face redden. “What a fool I’ve been,” he murmured. “You’ve known that it is, all along.”
“Well, I’ve known you’re a promising innovator.”
“For the Star’s sake, are we back to that?” exclaimed Noren impatiently. “That’s part of the trouble; I’m sick of hearing about my so-called promise! I’m sick of having everyone expect something of me that I’ll never be able to deliver. I know you think I’ll achieve great things someday, but I just can’t take your word for it.”
“I realize you can’t,” Stefred admitted sadly. “That’s part of the pattern; one sign of your promise is your inability to take anyone’s word for something you’ve reached the point of doubting.”
“That’s the same thing you see in Lianne,” Noren observed.
“One of the things, yes.”
“Then you’re manipulating me again, and I’m letting you! It’s why you’ve told me as much about her reaction to the dreams as you have; you knew I’d see the comparison—”
“No!” Stefred burst out, wrenching his chair around to face Noren directly. “By the Star, Noren, I never anticipated this. It didn’t occur to me it could help till you proposed it yourself. Eventually, yes; we both knew you’d choose it eventually—you’re too much like him not to want awareness of all he went through. But no wish of mine led you to suggest it now, not—not unless you can read my mind.”
“You do think it may help me, then.”
“I don’t presume to judge; you’ve taken the decision into your own hands.” At Noren’s look he added, “I guess that sounded sarcastic. Forgive me; I’m slow tonight. As you said, we’re both under strain. I honestly don’t know if it will help you. My thought was—elsewhere.”
On Lianne, yes, as it should be. “I’d better go,” Noren said.
As he reached the door, Stefred stood up. “Noren… wait,” he said softly.
“I’ve already said more than enough I’m sorry for.”
“You’ve changed your mind?”
“About the full version of the dreams? No, of course not, but I shouldn’t have bothered you with it. I’ll sign up for the first open time slot on the regular schedule sheet.”
“They’re not like library recordings. They have to be monitored.”
“Oh, come on, Stefred—they won’t send me into physical shock or anything. Not at this stage.”
“I trust not. Nevertheless monitoring’s standard procedure. Does that alter your enthusiasm?” Restlessly, Stefred paced back and forth between the desk and the window, his indecision more evident than ever.
“What it alters,” said Noren sharply, “is my optimism about how soon my theoretical right of access is going to take effect. You can always give me a medical disqualification, and since you’re the only one in the City qualified to monitor controlled dreaming—”
“Don’t reproach me for a circumstance I’ve spent the past two nights regretting,” said Stefred wearily. “Just sit down again and listen.”
Noren sat. “Since I can’t read your mind,” he said, “I think it’s time you told me what’s going on in it.”
With resignation, as if conceding defeat in some inner battle, Stefred said, “There’s one way I could help Lianne, a way I’ve not let myself consider. If I could use the full recording—”
“You’d waive the requirement that she can’t know in advance what recantation will lead to?” exclaimed Noren, astonished. Stefred wasn’t one to go by the rule book, but to violate that particular policy would be unthinkable. The key to the succession was that Scholar rank could be attained only by those who did not want it, who most certainly would not accept it as payment for submission to necessary evils. “It would be self-defeating, if you want my opinion,” he went on. “She’ll never recant if she knows what she stands to gain; none of the rest of us would have.”
“The recording could be re-edited, the secret parts taken out.”
“If that’s feasible, why haven’t you done it?” asked Noren in bewilderment.
“Because as you say, I’m the only person in the City qualified to monitor controlled dreaming at all, let alone the form of monitoring used in the editing process.” He met Noren’s eyes for the first time since the dreams had been mentioned. “Did you think I could sit down at a computer console and push keys, as if I were editing a study disc? The computers can’t read thought recordings, you know—they’ve got to be processed by sleeping human minds.”
Abruptly, Noren understood. “You need a volunteer to work with.”
“Unfortunately, yes. I’d prefer to take the dreamer’s role myself.”
“That would be a waste of machine time,” said Noren, keeping his voice light, “consideringthat I’m going through those dreams as soon as possible anyway.”
“I suppose you are,” Stefred said, his voice low, “and I can’t deny that I’m tempted to take advantage of that. I—I did manipulate you, perhaps. Not purposely, and not by plan, yet I won’t pretend I didn’t know underneath that you’d force my hand if I argued.”
“You also knew all that argument wasn’t necessary. If you’d explained what was at stake in the first place—”
“If I’d done that, I wouldn’t have been sure you wanted this experience for its own sake. And I couldn’t weigh her welfare against yours.”
“Then you’re slipping,” Noren said. “I’m a priest—and she is a prisoner in our hands. There’s no question about whose welfare comes first; any one of us would offer, wouldn’t we?”
“But I couldn’t use just anyone, and the very things that make you a suitable subject will make it more grueling for you than for others.”
“What things?” asked Noren, beginning to realize that he was not quite sure what he’d volunteered for.
“Your likeness to the First Scholar—and your willingness to reach for his entire thought. I couldn’t rely on someone whose mind would retreat from the rough parts; there’d be danger of missing something significant.”
“I don’t understand the technique,” Noren admitted. “I thought the monitors showed only physiological responses. Is there a way they can indicate content, too?”
“Not directly. It has to be done with hypnotic suggestion—in this case, commands to respond physiologically in some unmistakable way whenever a thought we must delete comes into your mind. You’ll be unconscious, of course; you won’t feel anything.”
“You—you stop each time?”
“The master recording? Not with this kind of material; to keep stopping and starting would drive you insane. No, it’s possible to synchronize the timing so that I can make the actual edited copy later, by feeding small sections into my own mind while I’m awake, as if I were working with a recording of my own thoughts, or with something briefer and less emotional.” He smiled, seeming more like himself, like the Stefred in whom it was impossible to lack confidence. “It’s a safe procedure; that much I can promise.”