The Family Man

Early in the morning, Harold awoke with stiff limbs and neuralgic pains in his joints. Another day was beginning and that thought filled him with a quiet joy. Another day of his steady, calm life that he’d been accustomed to for the thirty years since he’d begun his job here, in the Big Hermitage. 
Nothing–-absolutely nothing–-announced that he was going to kill a man today.
 
First, he'd go to take a shower. Then he'd shave thoroughly and afterwards he'd join Elsa and Samantha in a solid, nutritious breakfast in their kitchen. After that he'd step out to his garden on the south side of the house to check if the first bud of his lemon tree had finally come up overnight. 
And then his best friend Ben would appear, probably. He'd ask him if he should come for their usual chess game at evening. Afterwards they'd sit silently, the round wooden table with a chessboard forming an intarsia between them, each of them engaged in his thoughts until the time came when Harold had to carry out his morning inspection of the power plant. As they sat they'd hear the reassuring rattling of the dishes and the babbling of both women from the kitchen. And Harold would be filled anew with the pleasant feeling that he was a happy family man.
 
***
 
Harold heard the well-known sounds as Elsa prepared their breakfast. He took a deep breath, indulging in the mixture of scents coming from the kitchen. When Harold came in the kitchen she broke two eggs over the rashers of bacon for him. He gave her a hearty smack on her lavender-perfumed cheek, astonished once again at how unwrinkled it was.
 
Samantha came last to breakfast, as always. That morning she was particularly high-spirited. Her pretty oval face was joyful, her grey eyes shone in expectation of something wonderful that would, that had to, happen that day. 

“Imagine, guys, a new tutor for biology lessons appeared on the school holovision yesterday. He's young, handsome, and very amusing! He can explain everything in such a clear way. Instead of a long, boring explanation, he’d just tell a funny riddle and suddenly we understand. He's going to be on the schedule again today at eleven.”

Lately, thought Harold, their daughter had been growing into a charming young woman. She was becoming more and more like her mother in the bygone time when he’d met Elsa for the first time. 

Harold glanced at the kitchen clock. Two hours from now he’d make today’s first routine examination of the nuclear power plant. Fortunately, the controls of all the equipment were completely automatic.

The main computer supervised the complete system and all activities round-the-clock. So Harold's periodical rounds through the huge, dazzling lit up halls along the rows of various silent devices, seemed almost unneeded. Thank God nobody in the Central Management of the SPS, the State Power Supply, had entertained the thought of dismissing him, considering him redundant. At least not yet.

Fortunately, nothing went wrong, not during all the long years of his employment in Big Hermitage.

Harold poured himself another cup of Elsa's wonderfully aromatic coffee, and stepped leisurely through the door on the south side of his house. A broad smile appeared on his face as he looked at his small lemon tree. He nodded contentedly, counting seven new, inchoate buds on it. And two of them were more then just buds; they could already be called real blossoms.
 
“Hey, Harold!”  Ben’s familiar voice uttered from beyond the fence. “Are we agreed on a chess game or two this evening?”
 
“Of course we are, Ben. Just don't bother getting here until eight o'clock or so.”
 
After his inspection of the power plant, Harold went back to the house and entered his tiny office. On the printer's tray there were only a few new messages, so he was able to skip through them in a few minutes. Nothing important; with one exception–an urgent official call from SPS management boldly marked ‘confidential’:
 
‘If Mister Harold G. Whitman would be so kind to call the attached number–-after proof of identity–-so he could view the personal message to him.’

 
Harold sat down, typed his personal code number into the computer, and on gaining access, a short notice appeared on the screen.
 
‘Dear Mr. Whitman,

As chief of the SPS Health Preventive Department, I will visit you this Tuesday about noon to carry out the medical examination according to the SPS health care programme. I will give to you the details in person, as well as the answers to any questions you may have.

Sincerely yours,

Doctor Melvin A. Zims.’

Harold frowned reluctantly. Today was Tuesday. He didn't want any molestation from anybody coming to him from the outside world. His family and he had been living happily inside the Big Hermitage complex for so long before this annoying notice came. Harold disliked even the thought of any strange person coming, sniffing about curiously and interfering in his perfectly organized daily routine. Surely, that intruder would despise him–an older and undereducated man–and try to turn all his well-arranged things upside down. Damn it! 

But there was no use complaining. Actually, he was a lucky man, by all means. There aren’t many who’ve been as happy as he’s been. He had all that an honest man could possibly wish for: a loving wife, an obedient daughter and a devoted friend. 

***

The Doctor's antigrav aircraft landed about fifty steps from Harold's house on his lawn. Some pale-faced man, about thirty-five years old, got out of the aircraft and waved curtly to Harold, who set out slowly toward him. He was alone, for he'd explained to both women that they should stay in the house. 

“I'm Doctor Zims,” said the arrival with an affected smile on his face, and gave his hand to Harold. He shook Doctor Zims' cold, wet hand–-a hand resembling a dead fish. 

Harold helped his guest fetch six or seven electronic appliances from the aircraft and carry them to Harold's living room. Doctor Zims politely refused a drink but accepted the chair that Harold offered him. He sat down and began to hesitate until Harold himself asked him what daily programme he had in mind.

“You know,” said his guest indecisively, “as a matter of fact I don't know exactly how to start. May I speak to you with perfect sincerity?”

“Of course,” replied Harold. 

“Well, many years ago somebody in our management made an inconvenient mistake about you, Mr. Whitman.”

“I don’t follow you, Doctor Zims.”

“I'm just coming to the point: my predecessor somehow omitted your item from our list of permanent employees. And, regretfully, I must admit that I, too, overlooked it when I came on the scene.”

“My item?”

“Yes–your name, your rank at work and all the other data, the location in which you've been working all this time. In short, the nuclear power plant Old Hermitage–including you as supervisor–simply hadn't been put into the register of the Preventive Health Department. I’d discovered this mistake by chance only a few days ago when I compared our list with the payroll. I haven't said anything about this mistake to anybody because, frankly, I'd be blamed for it too. Do you understand my view, Mister Whitman?”

Harold shrugged his shoulders. “I still don't know what my role might be in all this.”

“I'd be much obliged to you, Mister Whitman, if you'd help me to correct this unpleasant mistake. My proposition to you is as follows: I'll now do a medical examine of your physical and mental condition. I'll do it thoroughly because you've been mistakenly neglected for so long. If necessary, I'm prepared to leave here also all the medical remedies that you might need in the future–-at my expense. What do you say about that?”                     

“Well, I don't know, Doctor,” said Harold. “Anyway, my decision about that isn't a deciding reason. Your superiors will surely discover your... well, blunder as soon as they see the travel report.” 

Doctor Zims grinned craftily. “You just leave that problem to me, Mister Whitman. I took a day off so not a living soul in the SPS knows about my trip here today.  Besides, I intend to arrange all your papers immediately when I return. Don’t worry.”

Harold shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, Doctor Zims. Obviously, you've thought about everything. Let's start with that examination so we get it over with as soon as possible.”

Doctor Zims arranged all his devices–partially on the table, and partially on the floor, and then asked Harold where the outlets were. It took some time for him to disentangle all the cords so that the apparatuses were connected properly. After that, he asked Harold to take off his jacket but not his shirt, and to sit on a chair. He took a thick, chromium-plated bar, which was connected to a computer with a cable, and started to move it slowly and closely over Harold's skin, repeatedly glancing at the view screen. He slid the bar methodically over Harold's forehead, temples, the crown of the head, neck, back, chest, stomach and all the way down to his feet. Then he went back and devoted his full attention to Harold's head.

“Very good, Mister Whitman. Now it's time for the psychological part of the examination. You know, by the way, I'm a medical doctor and a psychiatrist.” A shrewd, affected smile appeared on his face. “And I must admit the latter job has much more money in it.”      

Though Doctor Zims kept trying to be friendly to Harold, the fact was that Harold had disliked him from the first moment. Yet, it would all be over soon enough. Then everything would be back to the way it had been before and Harold would be able to return to his job and devote himself to his family again.     

Later, Harold lay down on his sofa, and Doctor Zims put some new apparatus in gear and started to question him. Some of the questions seemed simple to Harold; others were complicated or even incomprehensible, and a few of them were downright foolish. How many fingers did he see; which day of the week was it; what’s the date today–-year too, please-–how long had he been working for SPS; how many years had he been living here in Big Hermitage; what was his opinion of his work as a supervisor; what pleased him and what bothered him; what did he detest; what did he hate most; did he have any proposals for possible changes? 

Everything had gone smoothly, even a little boringly, until Doctor Zims asked him what meant most to him personally, outside working hours, that is. With no doubt in his mind, Harold mentioned his family; this was the thing most dear to his heart, the most important in his life.

Doctor Zims suddenly pricked his ears up and started, for the first time, to listen carefully to Harold. He even stopped questioning him for a while and stared at him curiously. Then he forced Harold to tell him more about that. Harold forgot his dislike for Doctor Zims and related to him what a blessing his family life was for him and how it made him happy and content. He described to Doctor Zims how agreeable chatting with his beloved wife was, who has been married to him for thirty years. Harold told him how pleasant the upbringing of their only daughter had been, who was not only a pretty young woman but was also extraordinarily bright for her age. Then Harold explained how he enjoyed the company of his best friend Ben and talked to Doctor Zims about their chess duels in the evenings and about their fishing in the nearby creek. And, finally, he told his examiner about his garden on the south side of the house, where one could find all kinds of vegetables and several sorts of fruit trees, among them his most favourite, a small lemon tree. Now and then Harold stopped his narration for a while, but each time Doctor Zims intervened and encouraged him to talk more. 

Finally, Doctor Zims switched off some of his electronic gadgets and leaned back in his chair. “Um... Yes, it must be that. It has to be.” He mumbled to himself and glanced at the screen once again. “Of course, it's like I'd assumed at the beginning. You know, when you'd told me a bunch of twaddle about the... well–-never mind. The medirob has confirmed my preliminary diagnosis on the whole and the method of your... um... healing that we've agreed to.”

“Healing?” Harold was astonished. “What healing? I feel perfectly fine and I don't need any of your damned... Sorry–-unneeded drugs!”

Doctor Zims tacitly opened his bag, took out a chromate article that seemed like a big pen and touched Harold's shoulder with it. Harold felt a slight stitch so he flinched and jumped from his chair.

“What was that?” Harold was in flurry. “Damn it––what have you given me? I told you before I don't want any of your bloody–”

“Take it easy, man; calm down.” The doctor's voice was mellow, as though he were comforting a child. “I just gave you a pneumo-injection; it'll do you good, you'll see. You better wait here on your chair for a few minutes, just in case. An allergic reaction seldom occurs. Still, we have to obey the rules, don’t we?”

“What are you talking about?” Harold kneaded his shoulder, flushed with anger. “I don’t intend to sit here any longer–-you... you cheating quack! First you weasel a favour out of me, then you pull a dirty trick on me! You've pricked me against my will and I'll sue you for damages! I order you to clear out all that baggage of yours right away, and just get out of my sight! If you’re not off in the next half-hour I swear I'll call SPS management let them know about you!”

Doctor Zims wasn’t impressed by Harold's threat at all. He watched him curiously and calmly; he seemed simply interested in whether any changes in Harold would occur. 

“Well,” he remarked, carefully pondering his words, “I must say, Whitman, I haven't detected any serious health troubles. Your liver's a little bigger then normal, and some of your joints are a bit stiff–-but all this is more or less common with people of your age. In short, you're in satisfactory shape, as you know already. That refers only to your bodily, physical health, of course.”
The doctor's last sentence expressed a clear hint that Harold’s psychological state wasn’t as fine as it might be. That astonished Harold, so he forgot his anger for a while. 

“What do you intend to tell me about what wasn't bodily? I suppose you’ll want to claim something about my mind not being okay? If so, you can just forget it. You could hardly find a more balanced man than I am; and you couldn't find a happier family man and a more agreeable father. My wife and my daughter have often said to me...”

Doctor Zims brought up his hand imperiously. “Wait a minute, Whitman. You've spoken enough for now. I'll speak now and you'll listen to me for a while. In the last few years, I’ve seen many patients with similar symptoms. Yet, I must admit I've never met such an advanced and detailed case as yours.”

Harold opened his mouth and then shut it again without saying a word. What's this cocky fool talking about? What symptoms, for God's sake? “Doctor, I've run out of patience. I don’t think we have anything more to say to each other. You've finished your late medical exam, so you've got the results, whatever kind they are, and now your guilty conscience is calmed. I'll keep my word and won't bring charges against you–-on one condition: that you pick up all your trash and leave for good. Now, at once, okay?”

“For heaven's sake, Whitman, can't you understand that you're seriously ill?” The doctor's voice showed an obvious intolerance. “Your mind is confused and you need immediate help from me if you want to recover your health. But chin up; you're not the only person to have such problems. Many isolated people, poor devils like you, have fallen into such a confused mental state. Because of a lack of real perception they’ve started to imagine the most desirable–”

“Rubbish!” Harold turned brick-red, fuming with rage. “You're talking rot, you wise guy! I've never heard such nonsense in my entire life!” At that moment he felt something, not just anger, but an urgent, pressing need to be furious. He wanted to let his rage be unconfined–-because somewhere, in the hidden corners of his subconscious, was buried some misgiving, a hunch that was so vast that he’d never dared to think it out. 

Doctor Zims glanced at his watch and nodded. “Seven minutes; it'll do, I suppose.” He cast his gaze back to Harold. “How do you feel now? Are you perhaps a little dizzy or off balance? No? Well, if not, do you mind stepping out into the fresh air with me?”

Harold, his lips stubbornly pressed together, didn't answer him. Doctor Zims rose and walked through the southern door of the house to Harold's beloved garden. When outside, he waved invitingly to Harold. “Don't be such a bore, pal–-come on, enjoy yourself out here!”

He’s got a lot of nerve, thought Harold. A stranger behaving like he was the householder here. But Harold followed him out, trance-like. In this moment, he only felt a need to move, anywhere–it didn’t matter where. He needed to do something; he needed to distract himself with something. Otherwise that mysterious, unspeakable something might break out of the darkness and tread him down.

When Harold went out, he looked around and couldn't believe his eyes.

No, that couldn’t be true! Was he out of his mind or something? This was the south side of his house, where his precious garden should have been. The five or six vegetable patches, a few flower borders, the clump of fruit trees, among them his beloved lemon tree, and in the corner should be his compost heap, away from the house because of the many flies, enclosed by a white painted wooden fence.  

On the southern side of his house there was nothing whatever. Not a thing remained.

His garden was gone, as though it had never existed at all. Suddenly there were no vegetable patches, no fruit trees, no compost heap and no wooden fence.

Worst of all, there wasn't even his dear lemon tree. Nothing was left. There was only the dusty drive to his house, the wicker armchair and the round wooden table with the chessboard forming its top.

“Well?” The doctor's voice was cold and oozed calmness. “Well then, do you see now?”

Harold's thoughts seared his mind; he felt like he’d just awoken from a deep sleep. He couldn't–-or he dared not–-follow these thoughts, these inklings, through. Not even the basic one: where had his garden disappeared to?

Yet his table with the chessboard on its top was still here, as always! Harold’s mind clung spasmodically to this table–-the table made by him, on which his friend Ben and he had played chess almost every late evening. Just now, that table was his rescue, the only reasonable object in the suddenly cracked world. That table–-and, of course, Ben, his best friend.

“Ben,” said Harold in a low voice. He had to pronounce the friend's name because that crazy doctor ought to hear it and understand what he was trying to explain to him. Ben, Harold's devoted fishing mate through so many years, and his sole opponent in their chess matches, the ones that had so often stretched late into the night. 

“Whitman, why don’t we just drop the illusions, eh?” The doctor's voice was scornful and authoritarian, like he was persuading a small child that water was wet. “I had already checked out your papers in my computer before I even started the examination on you. Still, I found neither a man named Ben nor anyone else who might match to your description of him. Such a person simply doesn't exist. And that doesn't surprise me at all, because for a hundred miles around Big Hermitage there is not a single house. I suppose, Whitman, you've made up that ‘Ben’ of yours in your fantasy. So you've thought up your ‘garden’, you've invented a friend, because you’ve needed him so badly. Otherwise you couldn't have survived your solitude.” 

Harold was fighting with a sudden giddiness, which was trying to blur the truth–-the real truth, which had been forming the best part of his entire life. He threw a hostile look at Doctor Zims.

“You're asserting that I’ve invented Ben? That's ridiculous. Look at that table. Ben and I have been playing chess on this table for years–-hundreds of games! I made this chessboard myself a long time ago, in my younger days. I carved out the wood with my own two hands and then I glued on to it a veneer of pine and hickory, do you see?”

“Indeed?” The doctor's sarcastic voice drilled into Harold's brain and challenged him. “Whitman, could you explain this little enigma to me? Why did you go and make this chessboard revolving? What other purpose could such a revolving chessboard have than to allow one to turn it around, to reverse the board after each move? In other words, to let someone swap the colour of his figures without rising from his chair? A man without a partner, a lonely man who plays chess with himself!”

Harold felt a strong temptation to hit the doctor in the face; he was dying to tear off the doctor's eyeglasses and to trample them under his soles. He was thinking about how to refute the insane slander of this disagreeable person–-and then he hit on something.

“Would you mind taking few steps with me, wise guy? It's only a couple hundred yards away from here. There I'll show you something that will shut you up!”
Harold began to stride determinably without looking back, though he marked the doctor’s presence by the stumbling steps not far behind him. He was hurrying along the well-known route that he'd walked so many times with Ben at his side. Over the lawn and down the slope, where suddenly a creek came in sight. There Harold stopped and waited impatiently for Doctor Zims. When he finally caught up with him, Harold pointed at the view and asked him triumphantly: “Well?”

“Well what?” Doctor Zims looked around indifferently, shrugged and glanced at Harold with a cold, provoking gaze.

“For heaven's sake, Doctor–-don't you see?”

“What should I see? What's here to be seen, if anything at all?” 

“The creek!” groaned Harold, “The creek with the trout in it, damn it!”

“What creek?” asked Doctor Zims dryly. “Where on earth would I find a creek in that dry, stony desert? Come on, Whitman, you could have made up something a tad more credible!”

Harold stared at the yellowish rocky ledge that only slightly reminded one of the dried up creek channel. Cracked rocks, gravel and stones, sand and dust. No sign of water anywhere, not even a single blade of grass. The dreary grey-brown flat surface extended to the horizon, mocking Harold and his delusions.

Despite the glowing heat, Harold felt ice along his back. His mouth was dry, his palms disagreeably humid. For the first time since Doctor Zims came, he was afraid. Was this some nightmare? Was the whole world going crazy, or was it just him that was losing his mind? His entire world was decaying and he could do nothing about it. That horrible hunch lurking somewhere in the rear of his subconscious revived and flooded him inside. Harold was terrified now, trembling with fear. 

He began to run. He darted about in panic, and when he was close to his home he stumbled over something and nearly fell on the dusty drive. 

At this instant, Samantha came out of the house and cast a glance at him.

Thank God–-his only child was still here! And through the kitchen window Harold saw Elsa, his dearly beloved wife, and then he heard her tuneless humming. Harold burst out sobbing with relief. This mysterious, abstruse curse didn't rest on his family. There was nothing wrong with them; everything was okay, as it always had been, all these long, happy years.

And then, abruptly, Harold caught sight of something strange in Samantha's look. She was looking at him absently, as if he were not there at all. The next moment Samantha's face began to change. There was some another, much older Samantha that Harold nearly didn’t recognize. He was gazing at her in horror, fighting with himself not to shout out. He felt a desire to demand his pretty little girl back; he was about to cry and beg for the return of his cheerful child, for his only daughter, the one he'd so often carried on his shoulders, swung in the air, and then caught again in his protecting, secure arms.

Around that grown-up woman, Samantha, out of nothing, appeared a great number of people unknown to Harold–-a bunch of strangers with indistinct faces that were constantly changing and merging into one another. And that other Samantha then mixed herself among them before vanishing into the crowd.
 
His eyes were firmly shut and he hardly dared to breathe. He knew he ought to rush instantly into the kitchen to convince him... to convince him about– 
He didn't dare to finish that thought; he couldn't get rid of that lurking, terrible hunch, that minatory misgiving that might kill him if it devoured the whole truth. He imagined that if he stayed where he was now, completely still, totally motionless, then maybe... maybe that fatal curse would not–
He didn't realize how or when his feet had brought him, involuntarily, into the kitchen.

 
Elsa was was cooking their dinner as always, the sleeves of her blouse rolled above her chubby elbows and chopping the vegetable.
 
Only then did Harold release the breath he had long kept back; his eyes became wet from an enormous relief that rose in that moment.
 
But then...
 
Instantly Harold noticed how the figures of both women slowly began to change in some odd manner. All the features on their faces were becoming less and less distinct; all the details were progressively vanishing one after another. Then the both figures quivered like the steam above a stove, that quiver came faster and stronger–-and then Harold realized his wife and his daughter was turning translucent and then so transparent he was able to see the kitchen-range through their bodies–and then both dissolved completely.
 
The kitchen was empty.
 
Harold gasped for breath; then the painful last moan of a dying animal ripped itself from his contracted chest. He helplessly doubled over; his shoulders arched and he felt an irrepressible shudder of fear and despair. His entire world was collapsing; all that had given his life sense was vanishing–-and he could do nothing against it. Harold tried to awaken from this dreadful nightmare, but nothing returned to what had been normal; nothing took a turn for the better–-the horrible nightmare remained. The dark hunch from his subconscious arose and carried away all he loved. All.
 
Harold heard some vague sound from somewhere. He clumsily turned round and obtusely stared at the vague figure, which slowly took the shape of Doctor Zims. The sound was his talking.
 
Zims! A wave of indignation and irrepressible hate engulfed Harold. Here was standing the guilty party who had set off this avalanche of misfortune! Zims was the perfidious murderer of Harold's adored wife and daughter; Zims had taken away his devoted friend; Zims had uprooted Harold's beautiful garden! Zims was the mocking devil that had destroyed all that Harold cherished, all that he'd held dearest on earth, all that he'd lived for! Harold clenched his fists until his fingernails pressed into his palms; the veins of his neck swelled up. Suddenly, he felt some unknown, strange strength pulsing through his entire body and brain, which drove out of his conscious all other thoughts except violence toward this beastly figure in front of him.
 
At this instant Harold noticed Zims' figure began to swell in some odd way.
 
It was expanding more and more–-and then Harold realized he was the one who caused that. Now he doubled his efforts; he strained all his muscles to the point of pain; he violently directed his hostile, murderous thoughts to that repulsive figure–-but he felt his strength was quickly weakening, and finally he felt he couldn't stand it any longer. 
 
In that instant the figure before him blew up.
 
It burst with a muffling smack–-as a ripe watermelon falling on hard ground–-and then the figure slowly collapsed on the stony drive.
 
Harold felt an instant relief, catharsis. Now he was completely relaxed and exhausted, like he'd laid down a heavy burden, like he'd reached the top of a high mountain by climbing, or like he'd experienced an orgasm. Inside he felt some odd emptiness, cleared out by the hate he’d spent.
 
Harold absent-mindedly looked around and after a while he saw that... thing lying on the ground. He was astonished about an absence of any feeling related to that thing. He felt neither triumph nor regret–he felt nothing.
 
Yet, he decided he must somehow get rid of... of that thing. It would be best to take it away to the compost heap in his garden, and to bury it in heaps of soft soil. Otherwise it would attract too many flies and Elsa would be grumbling again. When Harold came to the white painted wooden fence he caught sight of his shovel leaning against the forked branch of the old pear tree. He hoisted it to his shoulder and attentively stepped along the narrow garden path.
 
Through the open living room window Harold heard the voice of some young man, occasionally interrupted ba Samatha’s laughter. The new biology tutor on the school holovision must be handsome, Harold assumed and glanced at the slightly open kitchen window covered with evaporation. Elsa was probably stewing potato dumplings just now, thought Harold.
 
Now he'd tidy up his drive, resolved Harold. Afterwards he'd slowly carry all that doctor’s electronic trash out of his living room and put it into that antigrav machine parked on his lawn. And, finally, he ought to recall which switches on the antigrav's command table he must put in gear to make it fly away automatically. Just away, wherever, no matter in which direction–just as far as possible from Big Hermitage and from his family.
 
***
 
Early in the morning Harold awoke and yawned; then he closed his eyes again and stretched his arms legs zestfully. The morning of another calm day. 
After his shower he’d join Elsa and Samantha at breakfast and that he'd step out to his garden to check if the first bud of the small lemon tree opened overnight. Then he'd take a seat in his wicker armchair; and then his best friend Ben would probably come. They'd sit silently until the time came for Harold's morning check of the power plant. All the time he'd hear the reassuring sounds of the dishes and the babbling of both women from the kitchen. And Harold would be filled with the pleasant feeling that he's a happy family man.