("Damn!")
What happened?
("Ah, the kid probably had his mind already made up that he wanted to sit there… probably does a lot of traveling and likes that seat.")
Possible. It’s also possible that the guy in blue does a lot of traveling, and that he just so happens to like to sit in the third recess on the left.
("Cynicism doesn’t become you, Steve.")
Well, it’s hard to be an ingenue after a couple of centuries with you.
("Then let me explain. You see, I can’t make a person part his hair on the left if he prefers it parted on the right. However, if he doesn’t give a damn where it’s parted, I can probably get him to do it my way.")
A slim, blond beauty in an opalescent clingsuit strolled through the port.
("Okay, where should we make her sit?")
I don’t care.
("Oh, yes you do. Your heart rate just increased four beats per minute and your groin is tingling.")
I’ll admit she’s attractive –
("She’s more than that. She bears a remarkable resemblance to Jean, doesn’t she?")
I really hadn’t noticed.
("Come now, Steve. You know you can’t lie to me. You saw the likeness immediately… you’ve never forgotten that woman.")
And he probably never would. It was over 140 standard years since he’d left her. What started as a casual shipboard romance during the Kwashi expedition had stretched into an indelible idyll. She accepted him completely, though it had puzzled her that he’d refused disability compensation for the loss of his left hand on Kwashi. Her puzzlement was short-lived, however, and was soon replaced by astonishment when it became evident that her lover’s hand was growing back. She’d heard of alien creatures who could regenerate limbs and there was talk that the Interstellar Medical Corps was experimenting with induced regeneration, but this was spontaneous!
And if the fact that the hand was regenerating was not bizarre enough, the manner in which it regenerated bordered on the surreal. No finger buds appeared; no initial primitive structures heralded the reconstruction of the severed hand. Instead, the wrist was repaired first, then the thenar and hypothenar eminences and the palm started to appear. The palm and the five metacarpals were completed before work was begun on the thumb phalanges; and the thumb, nail and all, was completed before the fingers were started. It was similar to watching a building being constructed floor by floor but with every floor completely furnished before the next one above is started. It took four standard months.
Jean accepted that – was glad, in fact, that her man had been made whole again. And then Dalt explained to her that he was no longer entirely human, that a new factor had been added, had entered through that patch of silver hair on the top of his head. He was a dual entity: one brain but two minds, and that second mind was conscious down to the cellular level.
And Jean accepted that. She might not have if it weren’t for the hand which had grown back where the old one had been sliced off. No question about it: the hand was there – discolored, yes, but there nonetheless. And since that was true, then whatever else Dalt told her might also be true. So she accepted it. He was her man and she loved him and that was enough…
… until the years began to show and she watched her hair begin to thin and her skin begin to dry. The youth treatments were new then and only minimally effective. Yet all the while the man she loved remained in his prime, appearing to be not a day older than when they had met. This she could not accept. And so her love slowly began to thin, began to dry, began to crumble into resentment. And from there it was not far to desperate hatred.
So Dalt left Jean – for her sake, for the sake of her sanity. And never returned.
("I think I’ll have her sit right here next to you.")
Don’t bother.
("I think I should bother. You’ve avoided a close male-female relationship ever since you left Jean. I don’t think that’s–”)
I really don’t care what you think. Just don’t play matchmaker!
("Nevertheless…”)
The girl paused by Dalt’s shoulder. Her voice was liquid. "Saving that seat for anyone?"
Dalt sighed resignedly. "No." He watched her as she settled herself across from him. She certainly did justice to the clingsuit: slim enough to keep the suit from bulging in the wrong places, full enough to fill it out and make it live up to its name. He idly wondered how Jean would have looked in one and then quickly cut off that train of thought.
"My name’s Ellen Lettre."
"Steven Dalt," he replied with a mechanical nod.
A pause, then: "Where’re you from, Steve?"
Derby." Another pause, this one slightly more awkward than the first.
("Have mercy on the girl! She’s just trying to make friendly conversation. Just because she looks like Jean is no reason to treat her as if she’s got Nolevatol Rot.")
You’re right, he thought, then spoke. "I was doing some microbial research at the university there."
She smiled and that was nice to see. "Really? That means you were connected with the bioscience department. I took Dr. Chamler’s course there last year."
"Ah! The Chemistry of Schizophrenia. A classic course. Are you in psychochem?"
She nodded. "Coming back from a little field trip right now, as a matter of fact. But I don’t remember seeing you around the bioscience department."
"I sort of kept pretty much to myself – very involved in the work." And this was true. Dalt and Pard had developed a joint interest in the myriad microbial lifeforms being found on the explorable planets of the human sector of the galaxy. Some of the metabolic pathways and enzyme systems were incredible and the "laws" of biological science were constantly being revamped. Alien microbiology had become a huge field requiring years to make a beginning and decades to make a dent. Dalt and Pard had made notable contributions and published a number of respected papers.
"Dalt…Dalt," the girl was saying. "Yes, I believe I did hear your name mentioned around the department a few times. Funny, I’d have thought you’d be older than you are."
So would his fellow members of the bioscience department if he hadn’t quit when he did. Men who had looked his age when he first came to the university were now becoming large in the waist and gray in the hair and it was time to move. Already two colleagues had asked him where he was taking his youth treatments. Fortunately, IMC Central had offered him an important research fellowship in antimicrobial therapy and he had accepted eagerly.
"You on a sabbatical from Derby?" she was asking.
"No, I quit. I’m on my way to Tolive now."
"Oh, then you’re going to be working for the Interstellar Medical Corps."
"How did you know?"
"Tolive is the main research-and-development headquarters for IMC. Any scientist is assumed to be working for the group if he’s headed for Tolive."
"I don’t consider myself a scientist, really. Just a vagabond student of sorts, going from place to place and picking up what I can." So far, Dalt and his partner had served as an engineer on a peristellar freighter, a prospector on Tandem, a chispen fisher on Gelk, and so on, in a leisurely but determined search for knowledge and experience that spanned the human sector of the galaxy.
"Well, I’m certain you’ll pick up a lot with IMC."
"You’ve worked for them?"
"I’m head of a psychiatric unit. My spesh is really behavior mod, but I’m trying to develop an overview of the entire field; that’s why I took Chamler’s course."
Dalt nodded. "Tell me something, Ellen–”
"El–”
"Okay, then: El. What’s IMC like to work for? I must confess that I’m taking this job rather blindly; the offer came and I accepted with only minimal research."
"I wouldn’t work anywhere else," she stated flatly, and Dalt believed her. "IMC has gathered some of the finest minds in the human galaxy together for one purpose: knowledge."
"Knowledge for kno
wledge’s sake has never had that much appeal for me; and frankly, that’s not quite the image I’d been given about IMC. It has a rather mercenary reputation in academic circles."
"The practical scientist and the practicing physician have limited regard for the opinions of most academicians. And I’m no exception. The IMC was started with private funds – loans, not grants – by a group of rather adventurous physicians who–”
"It was a sort of emergency squad, wasn’t it?"
"At first, yes. There was always a plague of some sort somewhere and the group hopped from place to place on a fee-for-service basis.
Mostly, they could render only supportive care; the pathogens and toxins encountered on the distressed planets had already been found resistant to current therapeutic measures and there was not much the group could do on such short notice other than lend a helping hand. They came up with some innovations which they patented, but it became clear that much basic research was needed. So they set up a permanent base on Tolive and started digging."
"With quite a bit of success, I believe. IMC is reputedly wealthy – extremely so."
"Nobody’s starving, I can say that. IMC pays well in hopes of attracting the best minds. It offers state-of-the-art research resources and gives the individual a good share of the profits from his marketable discoveries. As a matter of fact, we’ve just leased to Teblinko Pharmaceuticals rights for production of the antitoxin for Nolevatol Rot."
Dalt was impressed. Nolevatol Rot was the scourge of the interstellar traveler. Superficially, it resembled a mild case of tinea and was self-limiting; however, the fungus produced a neurotoxin with invariably fatal central-nervous-system effects. It was highly contagious and curable only by early discovery and immediate excision of the affected area of skin… until now.
"That product alone would finance the entire operation of IMC, I imagine."
El shook her head. "Not a chance. I can see you have no idea of the scope of the group. For every trail that pays off, a thousand are followed to a dead end. And they all cost money. One of our most costly fiascoes was Nathan Sebitow."
"Yes, I’d heard he’d quit."
"He was asked to quit. He may be the galaxy’s greatest biophysicist but he’s dangerous – complete disregard of safety precautions for both himself and his fellow workers. IMC gave him countless warnings but he ignored them all. He was working with some fairly dangerous radiation and so finally his funds were cut off."
"Well, it didn’t take him long to find a new home, I imagine."
"No, Kamedon offered him everything he needed to continue his work within days after he supposedly ‘quit’ IMC."
"Kamedon… that’s the model planet the Restructurists are pouring so much money into."
She nodded. "And Nathan Sebitow is quite a feather in its cap. He should come up with something very exciting – I just hope he doesn’t kill anybody with that hard radiation he’s fooling around with." She paused, then, "But getting back to the question of knowledge for knowledge’s sake: I find the concept unappealing, too. IMC, however, works on the assumption that all knowledge – at least scientific knowledge – will eventually work its way into some scheme of practical value. Existence consists of intra-and extracorporeal phenomena; the more we know about those two groups, the more effective our efforts will be when we wish to remedy certain interactions between them which prove to be detrimental to a given human."
"Spoken like a true behaviorist," Dalt said with a laugh.
"Sorry." She flushed. "I do get carried away now and again. Anyway, you see the distinction I was trying to make."
"I see and agree. It’s good to know that I’m not headed for an oversized ivory tower. But why Tolive? I mean, I’ve–”
"Tolive was chosen for its political and economic climate: a non-coercive government and a large, young work force. The presence of IMC and the ensuing prosperity have stabilized both the government – and I use that term only because you’re an outsider – and the economy."
"But I’ve heard stories about Tolive."
"You mean that it’s run by a group of sadists and fascists and anarchists and whatever other unpleasant terms you can dig up, and that if it weren’t for the presence of the IMC the planet would quickly degenerate into a hell-hole, right?"
"Well, not quite so bluntly put, perhaps, but that’s the impression I’ve been given. No specific horror stories, just vague warnings. Any of it true?"
"Don’t ask me. I was born there and I’m prejudiced. But guess who else was born there, and I think you’ll know what’s behind the smear campaign."
Dalt pondered a moment, baffled. Pard, with his absolute recall, came to the rescue. ("Peter LaNague was born on Tolive.")
"LaNague!" Dalt blurted in surprise. "Of course!"
El raised her eyebrows. "Good for you. Not too many people remember that fact."
"But you’re implying that someone is trying to smear LaNague by smearing his homeworld. That’s ridiculous. Who would want to smear the author of the Federation Charter?"
"Why, the people who are trying to alter that charter: the Restructurists, of course. Tolive has been pretty much the way it is today for centuries, long before LaNague’s birth and long since his death. Only since the Restructurist movement gained momentum have the rumors and whispers started. It’s the beginning of a long-range campaign; you watch – it’ll get dirtier. The idea is to smear LaNague’s background and thus taint his ideas, thereby casting doubt upon the integrity of his life-work: the Federation Charter."
"You must be mistaken. Besides, lies can easily be exposed."
"Lies, yes. But not rumors and inference. We of Tolive have a rather unique way of viewing existence, a view that can easily be twisted and distorted into something repulsive."
"If you’re trying to worry me, you’re doing an excellent job. You’d better tell me what I’ve gotten myself into."
Her smile was frosty. "Nobody twisted your arm, I assume? You’re on your way to Tolive of your own free choice, and I think you should learn about it firsthand. And speaking of hands…”
Dalt noticed her gaze directed at his left hand. "Oh, you’ve noticed the color."
"It’s hard to miss."
He examined the hand, pronating and supinating it slowly as he raised it from his lap; a yellow hand, deepening to gold in the nail beds and somewhat mottled in the palms. At the wrist, normal flesh tone resumed along a sharp line of demarcation. Anthon’s sword had been sharp and had cut clean.
"I had a chemical accident a few years back which left my hand permanently stained."
El’s brow furrowed as she considered this.
("Careful, Steve,") Pard warned. ("This gal’s connected with the medical profession and may not fall for that old story.")
"That can easily be remedied," El said after a pause. "I know a few cosmetic surgeons on Tolive–”
Dalt shook his head and cut her off. "Thanks, no. I leave it this color to remind me to be more careful in the future. I could have been killed."
("Go on! Persist in your stubbornness! For almost two centuries now you’ve refused to allow me to correct that unsightly pigmentation. It was my fault, I admit. I’d never overseen the reconstruction of an appendage before and I–”)
I know, I know! You made an error in the melanin deposition. We’ve been over this more times than I care to remember.
("And I can correct it if you’ll just let me! You know I can’t stand the thought of our having one yellow hand. It grates on me.")
That’s because you’re an obsessive-compulsive personality.
("Hah! that’s merely a term used by slobs to denigrate perfectionists!")
El was now eyeing the gray patch of hair on the top of his head. "Is that, too, the result of an accident?"
"A terrible accident." He nodded gravely.
("No fair! I can’t defend myself!")
She leaned back and appraised him. "A golden hand, a crown of silver hair, and a rather large f
lamestone hanging from your neck – you cut quite a figure, Steven Dalt." El was frankly interested.
Dalt fingered the jewel at his throat and pretended not to notice. "This little rock is a memento of a previous and far more hazardous form of employment. I keep it for sentimental reasons only."
"You have lots of color for a microbiologist," she was saying, and her smile was very warm now, "and I think you’ll make a few waves at IMC."
A few days later they sat in the lounge of the orbit station and watched Tolive swirl below them as they sipped drinks and waited for the shuttle to arrive. A portly man in a blue jumper drifted by and paused to share the view with them.
"Beautiful, isn’t it?" he said, and they replied with nods. "I don’t know what it is, but every time I get in front of a view like this, I feel so insignificant. Don’t you?"
El ignored the question and posed one of her own. "You aren’t from Tolive, are you?" It was a statement.
"No, I’m on my way to Neeka. Have to lay over in orbit here to make a connecting jump. Never been down there," he said, nodding at the globe below. "But how come you sound so sure?"
"Because no one from ‘down there’ would ever say what you said," El replied, and promptly lost interest in the conversation. The portly man paused, shrugged, and then drifted off.
"What was that all about?" Dalt asked. "What did he say that was so un-Tolivian?"
"As I told you before, we have a different way of looking at things. The human race developed on a tiny planet a good many light-years away and devised a technology that allows us to sit in orbit above a once-alien planet and comfortably sip intoxicants while awaiting a ship to take us down. As a member of that race, I assure you, I feel anything but insignificant."
Dalt glanced after the man who had initiated the discussion and noticed him stagger as he walked away. He widened his stance as if to steady himself and stood blinking at nothing, beads of sweat dropping from his face and darkening the blue of his jumper. Suddenly he spun with outstretched arms, and with a face contorted with horror, began to scream incoherently.