Also, I know how disappointing it can be to gaze into another’s mind and discover they’re not as wonderful as they appear on the outside. I’m the first to admit I fantasize about Matt. I’d hate to ruin my dreams by putting his thoughts under a magnifying glass and discovering he’s really a shallow jerk. The same with Teri. The best gifts are those we leave wrapped.
The final for the women’s 1500-meter arrives. The race is run in the cool of the evening. It’s the last race of the day, and the stadium is tense. No one appreciates track like the citizens of Eugene. It’s like they’ve never let go of their native son, Steve Prefontaine, who died having never won an Olympic gold medal, a sad fact I fear I might have had something to do with.
In the early seventies, before the Munich Olympics, I was living in Oregon—where I later met Ray—and I happened to bump into Prefontaine when he was out for a ten-mile run. Since I had on shorts and tennis shoes, and had always admired the guy, I decided to run along beside him.
At the time, I meant no harm. But what I didn’t realize was that Prefontaine was stunned at my ability to keep up with him. From my side, I was just getting in some exercise and saying hello, but he was trying to beat me. By the time I realized my mistake, he was gasping for air. Naturally, when I finally saw how weary he was, I feigned exhaustion and begged to stop. But it was too late—the damage had been done.
Steve Prefontaine went off to the Olympics knowing that he had been beaten by a girl. I often worried if that’s why he tied up in the straightaway of his race and was passed by three people, finishing fourth without a medal.
In the final, against Matt’s and Coach Tranton’s advice, Teri pushes to the front and sets a brutal pace. I understand what drives her. She’s feeling the fire of my blood. Yet it’s a fire she doesn’t know how to control, and I finally see that Matt’s fears are not unfounded. I have seldom shared my blood with mortals, and I’ve never done so to make someone a better athlete. Have I given her too much blood? Could she really burn herself out? She runs through the first lap in sixty seconds, faster than a world-record pace.
I shout over the roar of the crowd.
“Teri! Slow down!”
It’s as if she hears me, which should be impossible. She turns in my direction. Our eyes seem to meet, and I try to convey to her my fear for her safety. Since I gave her the transfusion, I have felt closer to her. I should not be surprised. We no longer share just the same genes, but the same blood, too. In that instant I feel a psychic bond stretch between us, like a golden thread capable of conquering any distance.
She suddenly slows down.
Teri wins the race by a full second, two seconds shy of a world record. The crowd gives her a standing ovation as she runs a victory lap. There is no longer any question in the minds of the experts. She is now the favorite to win the gold medal at the Olympics.
Afterward, when I hug her and congratulate her on making the team, I feel her flesh still shuddering from the effort she put it through. And I don’t know whether that means she needs more of my blood or less.
TWELVE
The Olympics are two months away. Our gang returns to Missouri, and Teri continues to train in earnest, while helping me with my novel, which I begin to work on with more enthusiasm. The tenor of my book has shifted. Now I’m focused on creating a futuristic civilization inhabited by two types of human beings—those who have subjected their bodies to nanotechnology, which boosts their physical and mental abilities far beyond normal, and a small minority of people who believe it’s best to remain the way nature intended. At the start of the story, the Nanots—as I call them—are in firm control of society. Indeed, it seems that normal humanity is about to become extinct.
I have no idea where the novel is going but don’t mind. I enjoy writing it, and that’s enough for me.
Shanti continues to get her surgeries, and her progress is so rapid that when her uncle pays her a surprise visit he doesn’t recognize her. The poor man breaks down and weeps with gratitude when he holds her in his arms.
Lisa’s state of mind improves when she gets a full-time teaching job at Truman College, taking over for a math professor for the summer semester. It’s apparent to the rest of us that Lisa is at heart an academic type and feels more comfortable in a university setting than in the marketplace.
After Teri makes the Olympic team, I see Matt less often. He excuses himself, saying he’s busy with his music, but I know he’s purposely avoiding me. His absence saddens me, but I don’t dwell on it. It’s almost a relief he’s not around. It makes me crave him less.
The Olympics are in London, and it’s been many years since I’ve left America. Although I was born in India, that country has changed so much in five thousand years it no longer feels like home. Nor does Europe. I came over to the New World with the Pilgrims, and although I’ve been back to Europe many times, if asked I would have to say I feel like an American.
I wonder if that’s why I feel unsettled at the prospect of traveling to London. The sensation comes over me after Teri qualifies for the team and grows as the date of our departure approaches. There’s no logical reason for my sense of dread. I simply feel that if I leave America, I won’t return.
It’s this feeling that pushes me to see Seymour Dorsten.
Ah, my beloved Seymour, I could write an entire book about him and still not express my feelings for him. As I mentioned before, although we’ve never physically met, Seymour’s written several novels about me, most of which have been fairly accurate.
It’s a long story, and I know when we meet he’ll want an answer to the mystery of our relationship. Of course, he’ll have trouble accepting the truth of our psychic bond, because I have the same difficulty. My relationship with him is a puzzle words cannot explain.
I know where Seymour lives, in Manhattan. Even without checking with my sources, I’m always aware of his location. I just have to close my eyes to see through his eyes. It’s been that way since I first contacted him when he was a senior in high school. Naturally, Seymour later wrote that we became friends during that period, but I say it again: We’ve never met.
I tell the others I’ll be gone a few days. I don’t say where I’m going. It’s my way. When I land at JFK, I half expect Seymour to be waiting to pick me up. I suspect he feels me near, because I’ve mentally sent out the thought that I’m coming. This fact is puzzling, I realize. He doesn’t have to believe I exist in order to read my mind. When I deliberately link with him, he starts daydreaming about me, but he imagines the thoughts are his alone.