The Last Master

  “Not brighter?” echoed Ett. He did not astonish easily, but he felt astonishment now. “I don’t understand. You mean RIV doesn’t increase intelligence? If that’s so, what’s all this excitement where I’m concerned?”

  “No, no,” said Carwell hurriedly. “From a practical point of view, you might as well consider your intellectual capacity’s been raised. It’s not that the effect isn’t essentially the same; it’s that we don’t believe the mechanism creating individuals such as you’ve become actually raises their innate intelligence.”

  “Then what’s the explanation?” Ett asked.

  “Well, if you order it, I can get you a number of books and papers on the subject,” said Dr. Carwell. “Most of them are on the restricted list—not for you, I suppose. But some of them I haven’t had EC clearance to read myself. I assume those just go a little farther into detail than the ones I’m acquainted with. To put the thing in nonmedical language, we think what happened in your case—and a few rare others—is like becoming sensitized to some allergenic substance. For some reason, in the case of a very, very few people injected with RIV, the whole being of the person develops either an unusual sensitization to intellectual demands—so that he immediately puts forth an unusual mental effort—or he becomes desensitized to any and all intellectual demands.” He coughed. “What’s known as an extreme negative reaction.”

  “Such as my brother had,” said Ett grimly.

  Carwell stopped, looking at Ett almost apologetically. His face maintained that expression while his voice, as he began again, seemed to carry an appeal for understanding.

  “I don’t know if I’m making myself clear,” he said. “As I say, I haven’t been trained to give this sort of explanation—” He stopped.

  “Just keep talking,” said Ett. “You haven’t said anything yet that I can’t follow.”

  “Well…” said Carwell, and then paused, obviously fumbling for words. “As you probably learned in school,” he went on, “late in the twentieth century the medical sciences made a lot of spectacular advances in molecular biology.” As Carwell settled into a lecturing mode he seemed to become more comfortable. Ett let him proceed.

  “RIV-I was developed in one of those projects. The program was originally instituted to look for a way to compensate for cases of severe brain damage. Of course it was known that in some cases the body and brain somehow managed to compensate without help—but that wasn’t generally the case, particularly in cases of senile dementia.”

  “The idea at first was to try to understand the basic mechanism the body used in those natural compensation cases—such as people who learned to talk again after a stroke destroyed their normal speech centers—and extend the principle to other cases. It was decided pretty early that the most likely procedure would have to involve something that could permanently correct a problem without resort to a lifelong course of drug therapy. And that meant something that could get into the brain cells and stay there, constantly working.”

  Carwell stopped momentarily, smiling now as he looked across at Ett. He leaned back in his chair and spread his arms wide.

  “It was one of those brilliant times, when knowledge seems to come together from a dozen directions, in a kind of chain reaction. All those great advances they were making around the world—in virology, in molecular biology, in cerebral biochemistry and even in genetic engineering—it just all built on itself.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on knees and voice lower, confidential.

  “They decided what they needed was something that would live inside the brain cells, would stay alive there—and would enhance those cells’ capacity. So they designed and made a small, single-strand RNA virus that they called RIV-I—”

  “And RIV stands for ‘renatin-inducing virus,’ as I remember,” Ett interjected.

  “Yes, exactly,” Carwell beamed, unstoppable now. “The virus consisted of RNA with associated unenveloped nucleocapsid protein—” as Ett frowned at the technical terms he rushed to explain. “That means, it lacked the lipoprotein coat, and so could penetrate the cell membranes better.” He paused momentarily as if to get himself back on his track.

  “So, RIV—in our time, RIV-II, an improved version—can become a permanent resident of the body’s neurons, reproducing itself and migrating to new cells as the older body cells die.”

  “Yes, but what is it that the drug does, to change people’s intelligence level?” Ett asked.

  “Well, as I said, RIV-II is actually a virus, and not really a drug,” Carwell answered. “And we’re not sure just what it is that it does, or why it seems to affect some people more than others. The theory is that the virus has been genetically engineered—still a bit of a probing-in-the-dark process, after all—to produce the polypeptide known as renatin—”

  “And it’s really the renatin that causes the changes?” Ett asked.

  “Yes, we think so,” said Carwell. “The renatin tends to dissociate into a number of smaller polypeptides, which serve as neuro-transmitter mediators. Do you understand what a neuro-transmitter mediator is?”

  “I think so,” said Ett. “It’s a sort of chemical messenger with news that affects the situation at its arrival point.”

  “Er—yes,” said Carwell. “In fact, that’s a pretty good description. The point is, the particular poly-peptides involved seem to fine-tune the cerebral biochemistry.”

  “Or un-tune it?” Ett asked.

  Carwell looked uncomfortable again, but nodded. “In a way, yes,” he said. “To us the subject seems unaltered physically, except for a few rare side-effects. But in the case of a rare individual, he or she seems to show a striking degree of change in sensitivity to intellectual stimulation—either more or less sensitivity.”

  “So,” said Ett thoughtfully, “an R-Master just gets a little more excited than anyone else, when it comes to intellectual matters—is that it? I thought it was going to do something more to me than that.”

  “Oh, it has,” said Carwell. “That’s the point. We’ve found that Masters seem able to reach back into personal resources we wouldn’t think they’d have. Put it this way, if I can use an analogy. Ordinary subjects who get some benefit from RIV can demonstrate feats of mental strength unusual for them. But R-Masters can demonstrate the mental equivalent of hysteric strength, with more understanding and conclusion than their tested intelligence ought to permit them to show.”

  “Then how can you be so sure their intelligence actually hasn’t been raised?” Ett watched the large earnest face closely as he spoke.

  “It depends on what you mean by ‘intelligence,’ of course,” said Carwell. “But so far as I know, none of the tests we’ve developed for intelligence yet show an increase in the mental capacity of an R-Master. They just show greater speed and certainty in the perceptive and reasoning areas. And—one other thing—we’ve now had R-Masters as a result of RIV for nearly fifty years. Not one of them has shown any real increase in creativity, let alone developed into anything resembling what’s classically referred to as a creative genius. If there’s a flaw in a highly complex plan, a Master will spot it in minutes where it might take ordinary men and women days. If the solution to a problem is possible, the Master will find it in days where ordinary people would need months. That’s all.”

  “Then why all the fuss about us?” Ett said. “Why give us the best that the world has to offer just for being what we are?”

  “Because you’re valuable resources, of course,” said Carwell. “And I suppose—” he hesitated for a second—“because you represent a phenomenon that’s still being studied.”

  “Ah,” said Ett. “So that’s it. Guinea pigs.”

  “I’d guess that’s part of it. As I say, you’re asking me questions I’m not equipped to answer. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Your brother—”

  He broke off.

  “What about my brother?”

  “Nothing,” said Carwell. “I just mean there are drawbacks to any phys
iological state, even that of being a Master—but your assigned physician can explain those things better than I can.”

  “I’ll take your explanation for now,” said Ett. “What drawbacks?”

  “I—” Carwell was genuinely unhappy—“I’m really not supposed to be the one who tells you things like this.”

  “You’re to tell me anything you know, that I want or need to know,” said Ett. “Or is what I’ve heard about the privileges of R-Masters a lot of nonsense?”

  “No. It’s true enough. But—”

  “Can we put the buts aside? What drawbacks?”

  “Well,” said Carwell, “there seem to be variations we don’t fully understand, in individual susceptibilities to the action of RIV. In a case like that of the rare R-Master, brain function seems to be considerably enhanced, but at the price of interference with the brain’s normal opioid system. Some of the endorphins seem to lose function, resulting in discomforts of various kinds—aches, irritation, restlessness, even insomnia. As well, the immune system is affected, and so the R-Master suffers a higher susceptibility to infection and disease. There’s also some effect on the endocrine system.”

  He stopped.

  “None of this is mentioned to those who might take RIV, is it?” Ett said.

  “You’re also much more in danger from anaphylactic shock,” Carwell went on. “That’s one of the reasons we watch you so closely right after administering the virus. Anaphylactic shock, now, is—”

  “That’s all right,” said Ett. “I know that one. I had a cousin who had bad allergic reactions and always carried medication to keep from dying if he was ever stung by a bee.”

  “So, that’s why you’ll be needing the care of a personal physician, yourself, to make you comfortable and healthy in the face of these side-effects.” He gestured towards the pocket into which Ett had put the pill container. “That’s the reason for that medication I just gave you, that you don’t want.”

  “I’ll admit I’m not at my best,” Ett said. “But I’ll get along.”

  “You may have some trouble sleeping.”

  “I never have trouble sleeping,” Ett said.

  Carwell said nothing.

  “I see,” said Ett, after a moment. “All right, I’ll take your word for it. I’ll have trouble sleeping. It just proves what I always felt about any kind of drug: none of them are any good. But I’ll tell you one thing.”

  He reached into his pocket, took out the pill container, and set it on the table beside him. “Sleep or no sleep, I’m not going to be taking these.”

  Carwell still said nothing.

  A moment later there was a soft chime from the phone grill. Ett leaned over to hit the answering stud, and said “Yes?”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Ho,” said an attractive female voice, “but I thought I should tell you that your staff is arriving, and your personal physician is already here. He asked if he could speak to you and Dr. Carwell, both, before Dr. Carwell leaves.”

  “He can do better than that,” said Ett. “He can leave, himself. Dr. Carwell is going to be my personal physician.” He turned to look at Carwell. “That is, unless Dr. Carwell objects.”

  Carwell was staring at him.

  “You want me?” he said. “Oh, no! No—no, it wouldn’t work.”

  There had been no sound from the voice on the phone while Carwell spoke; but now a male voice came over the line.

  “Mr. Ho, this is Dr. Lopayo,” it said. “I’m sorry, but what you want is just not possible. Dr. Carwell isn’t qualified for that position. Earth Council requires that you have a qualified physician in attendance at all times.”

  “He can be in attendance if he wants,” said Ett, “but I want Dr. Carwell as well. How about it, Morgan—and you can call me Ett.”

  “I… I…” Carwell actually stammered. “Well, naturally, Mr.—uh, Ett—I’d be, um, fascinated by the job of personal physician to an R-Master. But… I’ve got my work here. And I do have a few private patients.” He looked at Ett, disturbed. “I’d like to think about it.”

  “Think about it all you want,” said Ett. “But the slot’s open—at least for the next few days.”

  “Thanks. I… I don’t mean to sound ungrateful—”

  “You don’t.” Ett waved him out of the room. “Think about it.”

  “Yes…”

  Carwell went out, blundering a little in his emotion, through the door even his big bulk could not fill. That door closed behind him, while Ett punched the cut-off switch of the phone. It was silent in the room again. He moved over to take a seat in front of one of the windows, and touched the control to open it. A cool morning breeze greeted him, bringing with it sounds of distant, unthreatening human presences, although no one was in sight on the big lawn. Ett sat back and looked out.

  ***

  Eventually there was a soft double rap on the door, and immediately it opened. Rico Erm once more entered the room, carrying what looked like a narrow-banded wrist instrument, in a gold finish, on a tray. Before he could speak Ett rose and addressed him.

  “Why did you knock?” Ett said.

  Erm stopped suddenly in the midst of his movement towards Ett, but his face remained calm and still.

  “Sir?”

  “Why did you bother to knock, if you weren’t going to wait for my answer before barging in?” demanded Ett. He stopped himself, with an effort, before continuing, although a part of him would dearly have liked to do so.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Ho,” said Rico Erm. “I’m afraid I was following the pattern that was established in the residences of other R-Masters I’ve been associated with.”

  More calm, Ett watched Rico Erm now. “Do R-Masters all live to a pattern, then?”

  There was a short silence; then: “To some extent, yes, Mr. Ho.”

  Ett crossed to the table and picked up the pill bottle Dr. Carwell had left with him.

  “And is this a part of the pattern?” he said.

  “Yes, Mr. Ho.”

  Ett allowed the silence to linger for a moment, and then lofted the pill bottle gently across the room with an underarm throw, so that it bounced off Rico’s chest and onto the tray.

  “Get rid of that for me, will you?” Ett said.

  “Very good, Mr. Ho.” The face and voice of Rico Erm were as bland as ever; but for a short moment Ett thought he had glimpsed a bright gleam in the man’s eyes.

  Ett started to say something further, but quickly checked himself. “What’s that you have on that tray, then? I assume it’s meant for me?”

  “Yes,” said Rico, holding out the wristwatch-seeming device. “This,” he said, “is a somewhat more complex instrument than the usual personal communicator. It puts you in touch on a continuous basis with the Earth Council computer center. Will you put it on, please?”

  Ett did so. On his arm it looked deceptively ordinary.

  “How does it work?” he asked.

  “Press the center stud,” said Rico.

  Ett did so. A small semitransparent figure like the holographic image of a seated Buddha seemed to form above the dial, and a tiny voice spoke to him from what seemed to be a speaker inside his right ear.

  “At your service, Mr. Ho. What can Earth Council do for you?”

  “Just testing,” said Ett.

  “Very good, Mr. Ho.” The figure disappeared. Ett reached up to touch his right ear as if to locate the source of the voice.

  “You hear through a direct beam broadcast from the wrist instrument to the bones of your ear,” said Rico. “You’re a valuable property, Mr. Ho. The Earth Council wants to serve and protect you.”

  “I see,” said Ett, in a voice he hardly recognized. The cold feeling was back inside him suddenly. He had been watched over by no one since he had left the Bruder household. Suddenly he felt like a dog on a leash.

  “So,” he said, still in that voice that was strange even in his own ears. “All right, what are my restrictions? Tell me now.”

  “No restr
ictions, sir,” said Rico. “The wrist instrument’s only for contact purposes. You know all men and women are free nowadays, and an R-Master is even freer than anyone else.”

  Ett watched the other man closely. There had been something unusual in the calm voice just then—something on the one hand just too bland to be real, yet on the other hand—what? The dark eyes in the impassive, delicately-handsome face were impenetrable.

  Rico went on. “You can go anywhere and do anything you like.”

  “Fine,” said Ett. The cold feeling still held him. “Let’s try that out, then. I think I want to eat at the Milan Tower.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Rico, “eat at the Milan Tower, Milan, Italy. What time, sir? What day?”

  “Today,” he said harshly, chilling with the cold anger at last let utterly loose within him. “Right now. What’ll it be—midnight when we get there? I want to have a late dinner at a window table in the Milan Tower, and I don’t give a damn how you arrange it. I think you said I could go have anything I want. Start by getting this for me!”

  Chapter Five

  Yes, sir,” said Rico quietly. He turned toward the door of the room, detouring slightly as he went to avoid the table Ett’s breakfast had arrived on.

  “What do I do, call Earth Council about it?” Ett asked. His voice seemed loud in his ears.

  “No, sir,” said Rico from the doorway. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  He went out.

  Left alone in the room, Ett found himself shivering, shuddering like someone who had just come from a swimming pool into colder air. It was a phenomenon he recognized from his childhood, and it was a sign that his fury was passing from him, now, leaving in its wake the nausea and chills it always had.

  Even as a small boy he had always had a violent temper; and even before he went to live with Heinrich Bruder he had begun to train himself out of it. He had always felt sick after letting his temper go, and controlling the latter had seemed the best way to avoid the disagreeable feelings. Of course, he had slipped on occasion; but the feeling of being befouled and depressed that followed his giving way to the furious anger buried in him, always provided its own punishment.