He managed to kick the first shupo; his toe caught it and lifted it up. It still shrilled, even as it crashed into the cement wall that rose from the entranceway. But while he kicked it, the others swarmed past him, between his legs, up him and over him, their nails tearing at him as they scrabbled on by, into the meeting room.
His arms in front of his face, he plowed his way up the steps, to the street.
Below him, the shupos clustered at the door like venomous green wasps. He could not make out what was happening inside; he saw only their backs, and he could hear nothing but their shouts. They had the political people trapped. They did not care about him, or, if they did, they had not had time to snare him. Now, he saw their vehicles. Several had been placed to block the street. Possibly the unlocked, half-open door had let out light, which had attracted a routine patrol. Or they had followed the woman, Icara. He did not know. Perhaps they had even followed him, all the way from the start.
They lose their thumbs, do they? he wondered. And voluntarily? It did not sound as if the group had decided to submit; the uproar was growing. If I brought the shupos here, he thought, I'm responsible; I can't run off. Hesitantly, he started back.
From the undulating mass in the shadows at the base of the stairs, two full-grown shapes split apart and emerged. A man and a woman, fighting their way up, gasping. He saw, with horror, trails of blood dripping and glistening on their faces. Not thumbs, he thought. They're fighting, and it doesn't end. That's the sacrifice, but if they won't make it, then--their lives?
The man, Wade, called hoarsely up to him, "Parsons!" His arms lifted; he tried to propel the girl up the steps. Shupos clung to every part of him. "Please!" he called, his eyes blind, agonized.
Parsons came back. Dropping down the stairwell, both feet stamping, he caught hold of the girl.
Sinking back, Wade again merged, pulled back by the shupos, into the darkness and noise; the green shapes gleamed, shrieking in triumph. Blood, Parsons thought. They're getting blood. Holding the girl against him he struggled up the stairs, gasping; he reached the street, staggered. Blood ran down his wrists, from the girl's body. Warm, boneless, she slipped closer to him as he walked. Her head lolled. Her untied hair, shimmering, spread out. Icara. Not surprising, he thought in a dulled fashion. Love before politics.
Here, in the darkness of the street, he wandered along, panting for breath, his clothing torn, carrying Wade's doxy, or girl, or whatever. Do they have last names? He asked himself.
The noise of the fracas had attracted passers-by; they flocked, calling excitedly. Several glanced at Parsons as he carried the unconscious girl. Dead? No. He could feel her heart beating. The passers-by hurried on in the opposite direction, to the scene of the fighting.
Worn out, he halted to gather up the girl and hoist her up onto his shoulder. Her face brushed his, the excellent smooth skin. Lips, he thought, warm and moist . . . what a pretty woman. Twenty or so.
Turning the corner he continued on, almost unable to proceed. His lungs hurt and he had trouble seeing. Now he had come out onto a brightly lighted street. He saw many people, a glimpse of stores, signs, parked vehicles. Activity, and the pleasant background of leisure. From the doorway of a store--a dress shop, by the looks of the window display-- music swirled, and he recognized it: the Beethoven Archduke Trio. Bizarre, he thought.
Ahead, a hotel. At least, a great many-storied building, with trees, wrought-iron railing, vehicles in rows before it. Reaching the steps, he ascended into a lobby in which people moved about. What he meant to do he did not know, for all at once, against him, the girl's heartbeat fluttered, became irregular.
He had his instrument case, didn't he? Yes, he had managed to hold onto it. Setting the girl down, he opened the case. People milled around him. "Get the hotel euthanor!"
"Her own. She has her own euthanor."
Parsons said, "No time." And he began to work.
FOUR
Close by his ear, a polite but authoritative voice said, "Do you need assistance?"
Parsons said, "No. Except--" He glanced up from his work for a moment. Into the girl's chest he had plugged a Dixon pump; it had taken over temporarily the job of her uneven heart.
Beside him stood a man wearing a nondescript white robe, without emblem. Like the others, he was in his twenties. But his voice and manner were not the same, and in his hand he held a flat, black-bordered card.
"Keep the people back," Parsons said, and resumed work. The throb of the robot pump gave him confidence; it had been inserted very well, and the load had left the girl's circulatory system.
Over her lacerated right shoulder he sprayed art-derm; it sealed off the open wound, halted bleeding and prohibited infection. The most serious damage was to her windpipe. He turned the little art-derm nozzle on an exposed section of rib, wondering what the shupos had that worked so well. It had carved her open expertly, whatever it was. Now he turned his attention to her windpipe.
Beside him the polite official put away his identification card and said, "Are you certain you know what you're doing?" He had, at least, cleared away the people. Evidently his rank affected them; the lobby had become empty. "Maybe we should call the building euthanor."
The hell with him, Parsons thought. "I'm doing fine," he said aloud. His fingers flew. Twisting, cutting, spraying, breaking open plastic tubes of tissue graft, fitting them into place.
"Yes," the official said. "I can see. You're an expert. By the way, my name's Al Stenog."
At least, Parsons thought, a man with a last name.
"This furrow," Parsons said, tracing the line that crossed the girl's stomach. He had coated it with airproof plastic. "It looks bad, but it's merely into the fatty wall, not the abdominal cavity." He showed Stenog the damaged windpipe. "That's the worst."
"I think I see the building euthanor," Stenog said in an affable voice. "Yes, somebody must have called him. Do you want him to assist you?"
"No," Parsons said.
"It's your decision," Stenog said. "I won't interfere." He was staring at Parsons with curiosity.
My speech, Parsons thought. But he could not worry about that, now. At least he had altered the color of his skin. My eyes! He realized suddenly. As Wade said: unpigmented.
I have to save this girl's life, he decided. That's first.
With the official watching over his shoulder, he continued his job of healing the girl.
"I failed to catch your name," Stenog said unobtrusively.
"Parsons," he answered.
"That's an odd name," Stenog said. "What does it mean?"
"Nothing," Parsons said.
"Oh?" Stenog murmured. He was silent, then, for a time, as Parsons worked. "Interesting," he said at last.
A second shape appeared beside Stenog. Parsons, taking a moment to glance up, saw a carefully groomed, handsome man with something under his arm, a kit of some kind. The euthanor.
"It's all over," Parsons said. "I took care of her."
"I'm a little late," the euthanor admitted. "I was out of the building." His eyes strayed, as he took in the sight of the girl. "Did this occur here? In the hotel?"
Stenog said, "No, Parsons brought her in from the street." To Parsons he said in his smooth voice, "A vehicle accident? Or an assault? You neglected to say."
Parsons simply didn't answer; he concentrated on the final portion of the job.
The girl would live. In another half minute her life would have ebbed out of her throat and chest, and then nothing would have saved her. His skill, his knowledge, had saved her life, and these two men--evidently respected individuals in this society--were witnesses to it.
"I can't follow your work," the euthanor admitted. "I've never seen anything like it. Who are you? Where did you come from? How did you learn techniques like that?" To Stenog he said, "I'm completely baffled. I don't recognize any of his accessories."
"Perhaps Parsons will tell us," Stenog said softly. "Of course, this is hardly the time. A little later, no doubt."
"Does it matter," Parsons said, "where I come from, or who I am?"
Stenog said, "I've been informed that there's police action going on around the corner. This girl might be from that event, possibly. You were passing nearby, found the girl injured on the street, brought her . . ."
His voice trailed off questioningly, but Parsons said nothing.
Now Icara was beginning to regain consciousness. She gave a faint cry and moved her arms.
There was a moment of stunned silence. "What does this mean?" the euthanor demanded.
"I've been successful," Parsons said irritably. "Better get her into a bed. There's damage that'll have to heal over a period of weeks." What did they expect, a miracle? "But there's no longer any danger."
"No longer any danger?" Stenog repeated.
"That's right," Parsons said. What was the matter with them? "She'll recover. Understand?"
In a slow, cautious voice, Stenog said, "Then in what sense have you been successful?"
Parsons stared at him, and Stenog stared back with a faintly contemptuous expression.
Examining the girl, the euthanor began to tremble. "I understand," he said in a choked voice. "You pervert! You maniac!"
As if he were enjoying the situation, Stenog said in a pleasant, light voice, "Parsons, you've blatantly healed the girl. Isn't that a fact? These are therapeutic devices you have here. I'm amazed." He seemed almost to laugh. "Well, of course you're under arrest. You realize that." With firmness, he moved the furious-faced euthanor back. "I'll handle this," he said. "This is my business, not yours. You can go. If you're needed as a witness, my office will get in touch with you."
As the euthanor reluctantly left, Parsons found himself facing Stenog alone. Leisurely, Stenog brought forth what looked to Parsons like an eggbeater. Touching a raised spot on its handle, Stenog sent the blades into spinning motion; the blades disappeared and from it came a high-pitched whine. Obviously, it was a weapon.
"You're under arrest," Stenog said. "For a major crime against the United Tribes. The Folk." The words had a formal sound, but not the man's tone; he spoke them as if they had no importance to him; it was a mere ritual. "Follow me, if you will."
Parsons said, "You're serious?"
The younger man raised a dark eyebrow. He motioned with the eggbeater. He was serious. "You're lucky," he said to Parsons, as they moved toward the entrance of the hotel. "If you had healed her there, with those tribe people . . ." Again he eyed Parsons with curiosity. "They would have torn you apart. But of course you knew that."
This society is insane, Parsons thought. This man and this society together.
I am really afraid!
In the dimly lighted room the two shapes watched the glowing procession of words avidly, leaning forward in their chairs, powerful bodies taut.
"Too late!" the strong-faced man cursed bitterly. "Everything was out of phase. No accurate junction with the dredge. And now he's trapped in an intertribal area." Pressing a control, he speeded up the flow of words. "And now, someone from the government."
"What's the matter with the emergency team?" the woman beside him whispered. "Why aren't they there? They could have got him on the street. The first flash was sent out as soon as--"
"It takes time." The strong-faced man paced restlessly back and forth, feet lost in the thick carpets that covered the floor. "If only we could have come out in the open."
"They won't get there soon enough." The seated woman struck out savagely, and the flow of illuminated words faded. "By the time they get there he'll be dead--or worse. So far we've completely failed, Helmar. It's gone wrong."
Noise. Lights and movement around him. For an instant he opened his eyes. A shattering blaze of white poured remorselessly down on him from all sides; once more he shut his eyes. It hadn't changed.
"Your name again?" a voice said. "Name, please."
He did not answer.
"James Parsons," another voice said. A familiar voice. As he heard it he wondered dully whose voice it was. He could almost place it. Almost, but not quite.
"Old?"
"Thirty-two," the voice said, after a pause. And this time he recognized it; the voice was his, and he was answering their questions without volition. Off somewhere, machinery hummed.
"Born?" the voice asked.
Once more he struggled to open his eyes. His hand came up to shield his eyes from the glare, and he saw, for a moment, the blur of objects and people. A clerk, bored, empty-faced, seated at a recording machine, writing down the answers that were given. A bureaucrat. A functionary in a clean office. No force, no violence. The answers came, however. Why do I tell them?
"Chicago, Illinois," his voice from some other point in the room answered. "Cook County."
The clerk said presently, "What month, date?"
"October 16," his voice answered. "1980."
On the clerk's face the expression remained the same. "Brothers or sisters?"
"No," his voice said.
On and on the questions went. And he answered each one of them.
"All right, Mr. Parsons," the clerk said at last.
"Dr. Parsons," the voice--his voice--corrected, from a learned reflex.
The clerk paid no attention. "You're through," he said, removing a spool from the recording machine. "Will you go across the hall to Room 34, please?" With a nod of his chin he indicated the direction. "They'll take care of you there."
Stiffly, Parsons rose. A table, he discovered. He had been sitting on a table, and he had on only his shorts. Like a hospital--aseptic, white, professional looking. He began to walk. And, as he did so, he saw his white legs, unsprayed, a strange contrast to his dyed arms, chest, back, and neck. So they know, he thought. But he kept on walking. In him there was no desire either to comply or to resist; he simply walked from the interrogation room, down a well-lit hall, to Room 34.
The door opened as he approached. Now he found himself standing in what appeared to be a personal apartment. He saw, with amazement, a harpsichord. Cushions upon a window seat, a window that overlooked the city. Midday, by the looks of the sun. Books here and there, and, on the wall, a reproduction of a Picasso.
While he stood there, Stenog appeared, leafing through a clipboard of papers. Glancing at Parsons he said, "Even the deformed? The congenitally deformed? You healed them too?"
"Sure," Parsons said. Now, some sense of control had begun to filter back into him. "I--" he began haltingly, but Stenog broke in.
"I have read about your period on the history tapes," Stenog said. "You're a doctor. Well, that term is clear. I understand the function you performed. But I can't grasp the ideology behind it. Why?" His face became animated with emotion. "That girl, Icara. She was dying, and yet you deliberately made skillful alterations to her system for the purpose of keeping her alive."
Parsons answered with an effort. "That's right."
Now he saw that several other persons had accompanied Stenog into the room. They hung back, out of the way, letting Stenog do the talking.
"In your culture this had a positive value?" Stenog said. "Such an act was officially sanctioned?"
A person in the background said, "Your profession was honored? A valued social role, with plaudits?"
Stenog said, "I find it impossible to believe a whole society could have been oriented around such behavior. Surely it was a splinter group that sanctioned you."
Parsons heard them, but their words made no sense. Everything was out of focus. Distorted. As if turned out by some warped mirror. "Healing was respected," he managed to say, "But you people seem to think it's somehow wrong."
A furious rustle leaped through the circle of listeners. "Wrong!" Stenog snapped. "It's madness! Don't you see what would happen if everybody were healed? All the sick and injured? The old?"
"No wonder his society collapsed," a harsh-eyed girl said. "It's amazing it stood so long. Based on such a perverted system of values."
"It demonstrates," Stenog said thoughtfully
, "the almost infinite variety of cultural formations. That a whole society could exist oriented around such drives seems to us beyond belief. But from our historical reconstruction we know such a thing actually went on. This man here is not an escaped lunatic. In his own time he was a valued person. His profession had not only sanction--it gave him prestige."
The girl said, "Intellectually, I can accept it. But not emotionally."
A cunning expression appeared on Stenog's face. "Parsons, let me ask you this. I recall a pertinent fact. Your science was also devoted to keeping new life from appearing. You had contraceptives. Chemical and mechanical agents preventing zygote formation within the oviduct."
Parsons started to answer. "We--"
"Rassmort!" the girl snarled, pale with fury.
Parsons blinked. What did that mean? He couldn't convert it into his own semantic system.
"Do you remember the average age of your population?" Stenog asked.
"No," Parsons muttered. "About forty, I believe."
At that, the roomful of persons broke into jeers. "Forty!" Stenog said, with disgust. "Our average age is fifteen."
It meant nothing to Parsons. Except that, as he had already seen, there were few old people. "You consider that something to be proud of?" he said wonderingly.
A roar of indignation burst from the circle around him. "All right," Stenog said, gesturing. "I want you all to leave; you're making it impossible for me to perform my job."
They left reluctantly.
When the last had gone, Stenog walked to the window and stood for a moment.
"We had no idea," he said at last to Parsons, over his shoulder. "When I brought you in here, it was for a routine examination." He paused. "Why didn't you dye your body all over? Why just in parts?"
Parsons said, "No time."
"You've just been here briefly." Stenog glanced over the written material on his clipboard. "I see that you claim no knowledge of how you got from your time segment to ours. Interesting."
If it was all there, there was no point in him saying anything. He remained silent. Past Stenog he could see the city, and he began to take an interest in it. The spires . . .