City of Night

merely difficult but impossible.
    Having amputated the little finger, ring finger, and middle finger of his left hand, William was at work on the forefinger.
    The three severed digits lay on the floor. One was curled in such a way that it seemed to be beckoning to Erika.
    Like others of his kind, William could by an act of will repress all awareness of pain. Clearly, he had done so. He did not cry out or even whimper.
    He mumbled wordlessly to himself as he chewed. When he succeeded in amputating the forefinger, he spat it out and said frantically, “Tick, tock, tick. Tick, tock, tick. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tick, tick! ”
    Had he been a member of the Old Race, the wall and carpet would have been drenched with blood. Although his wounds began to heal even as he inflicted them on himself, he had still made a mess.
    Erika could not imagine why the kneeling butler was engaged upon this self-mutilation, what he hoped to achieve, and she was dismayed by his disregard for the damage he had already done to his master’s properly.
    “William,” she said. “William, whatever are you thinking?”
    He neither answered nor glanced at her. Instead, the butler stuck his left thumb in his mouth and continued this exercise in express dedigitation.
    Because the mansion was quite large and because Erika couldn’t know if any member of the staff might be nearby, she was reluctant to cry out for help, for she might have to get quite loud to be heard. She knew that Victor wished his wife to be refined and ladylike in all public circumstances.
    All members of the staff were, like William, of the New Race. Nevertheless, everything beyond the doors of the master suite was most definitely in public territory.
    Consequently, she returned to the telephone in the bedroom and pressed the ALL-CALL function of those buttons on the keypad dedicated to the intercom system. Her summons would be broadcast to every room.
    “This is Mrs. Helios,” she said. “William is biting off his fingers in the upstairs hall, and I need some assistance.”
    By the time she returned to the hallway, the butler had finished with his left thumb and had begun on the little finger of his right hand.
    “William, this is irrational,” she cautioned. “Victor designed us brilliantly, but we can’t grow things back when we lose them.”
    Her admonition did not give him pause. After spitting out the little finger, he rocked back and forth on his knees: “Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tick , TICK, TICK !”
    The urgency of his voice triggered connections between implanted associations in Erika’s mind. She said, “William, you sound like the White Rabbit, pocket watch in hand, racing across the meadow, late for tea with the Mad Hatter.”
    She considered seizing the hand that still had four fingers and restraining him as best she could. She wasn’t afraid of him, but she didn’t want to appear forward.
    Her in-the-tank education had included exhaustive input on the finest points of deportment and manners. In any social situation from a dinner party to an audience with the Queen of England, she knew the proper etiquette.
    Victor insisted upon a poised wife with refined manners. Too bad William wasn’t the Queen of England. Or even the Pope.
    Fortunately, Christine, the head housekeeper, must have been nearby. She appeared on the stairs, hurrying upward.
    The housekeeper did not seem to be shocked. Her expression was grim but entirely controlled.
    As she approached, she took a cell phone from a pocket of her uniform and speed-dialed a number with the pressing of one key.
    Christine’s efficiency startled Erika. If there was a number that one called to report a man biting off his fingers, she herself should have known it.
    Perhaps not all the downloaded data had found its way into her brain as it should have done. This was a troubling thought.
    William stopped rocking on his knees and put his right ring forger in his mouth.
    Other members of the household staff appeared on the stairs—three, four, then five of them. They ascended but not as quickly as Christine.
    Every one of them had a haunted look. That is not to say they appeared to be ghosts, but that they looked as if they had seen a ghost.
    This made no sense, of course. The New Race were atheists by programming and free of all superstition.
    Into the cell phone, Christine said, “Mr. Helios, this is Christine. We’ve got another Margaret.”
    In her vocabulary, Erika had no definition for