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By Root 440 0

mix that had provided the twins with their talent did not cover other areas of their intellectual development. In many ways they were dumb. And when it came to emotional maturation, it had required several psychologists and a battery of complex tests to establish the evidence that there had been any. The truth was that their genius had done little to enhance them as human beings. Instead their gift sat on them like some congenital malformation, distorting the shape and symmetry of their personality. But unlike a club foot or a hunchback, which could be surgically corrected, their disfigurement had proved incurable. They would forever remain immature mischief-makers with the mathematical ability to destroy the universe.

Archie knew this and it terrified him. Nimo knew it too, and, like her husband, she had turned her back on the problem hoping it would go away. Archie coped by trying to swamp his responsibility in a sea of Voxnic in the company of computer programmer Vestal Smith. Nimo consumed her time a little more productively in the accumulation of academic degrees. But even she was beginning to wonder whether embarking on a fifth Ph.D

was really a worthwhile way for a grown-up person to spend their time.

The house was quiet. Archie stared at the reflection of his tired face in the bathroom mirror and wondered whether there were any poisons that would defy the pathologist's skill. He found it therapeutic, while combing his hair, to plan the demise of his children. When Archie had first mentioned his macabre preoccupation to his psychiatrist, he had expected cries of outrage and despair, along with a prescription to raise his dose of Mestobam to five hundred milligrams per hour. But instead, the analyst had sighed, switched on an ancient recording of a Bartok string quartet, lit a cigarette and said, somewhat bored, 'Infanticide is a very common fantasy amongst the intelligentsia. In fact,' he continued, pausing only to fill his lungs with smoke, 'I only become worried when a patient doesn't harbour the desire to murder a close relation.'

Archie had felt horrified by this news. The thought that most of his friends and colleagues stalked the metropolis with murder in their hearts was one thing, but the revelation that his fantasy was ordinary induced a mental relapse requiring many months of deep and intensive analysis. It wasn't until a full year later that Archie felt able to return to the thoughts of murdering his children. This had been prompted by remarks his psychiatrist had made one dank winter morning, when Archie was feeling smugly at peace with the world.

'You know, Sylvest, your psyche has become lopsided,' the doctor had said, reaching for yet another of his specially made cigarettes.

'Your problem is that you lack feelings of guilt, anguish, turmoil.'

He paused for a moment and blew a smoke ring. Archie watched, impressed by the psychiatrist's skill.

'You are too calm. Someone of your intellectual ability requires a damper, a neurosis, to complement the creative side of their personality.'

Archie had looked puzzled. He had spent a fortune having himself straightened out. Now the man who had helped him achieve his cheerful, contented disposition, was telling him he was too happy.

What does the fool mean! Archie pondered, undecided whether to sue the doctor for malpractice, or simply punch him on the nose.

But before he could make up his mind, the psychiatrist had said,

'Your life is too cosy. You are far too gifted to spend your days regurgitating tried and tested facts to your students. Too dynamic to waste your evenings in front of the viddy-screen.' The doctor leant forward and stared directly into Archie's eyes. 'You are a theoretical mathematician. It is time you went back to your proper work!'

Poor Archie gazed at the tiny, ruptured blood vessels in the corneas of his accuser's eyes and knew that what had just been said was true. His feeling of well-being was a lie. Original thought had become alien to him. He had grown lazy, undisciplined. Archie's face sagged as feelings of guilt began