by C. L. Moore
He was.
The dark, impassive face showed on the televisor. Louis said, "Hiya, Joe. Off duty already?"
"Yes. Till tonight. What about breakfast?"
"I've had it hours ago," Louis said. "I'll take a sandwich and coffee, though; I'm about ready for that. Hard work today! Let's see—where are you?" He looked up, reading the map light on the screen of his own visor. "O.K., at the Murray Hill. That suit you?"
"Why not," Breden said, and broke the connection. The thought of breakfast made his stomach feel queasy. He lit another sedative-cigarette and went into the nearest pneumo-tube terminal, trying to blank out his mind by studying the advertising placards.
At the Murray Hill it was difficult to open the subject. Besides, Breden didn't know how much he wanted to say. He talked idly, playing with his food, while Louis cheerfully gossiped and went into detail about his work. He was a bacteriologist; many mutants had gone into medicine of one kind or another.
"It's an atypical virus," Louis said, drawing a picture on the table top. "That doesn't mean a thing, of course. Still, it definitely puts it on the wrong side of the ledger. No research allowed. It's a pity, I suppose, but unless it develops into an epidemic, one can have only abstract interest in it. And if there should be an epidemic, the ban would be lifted, and we'd be assigned to research so we could give the little devil a label."
Breden looked at his brother. Not his brother, really, he thought. They'd had the same parents, but the same blood didn't run in their veins. How can you be kin to a mutant? And, as usual, Louis was the same casual, imperturbable success. You'd think he'd be a little self-conscious about being a freak!
Breden checked himself with a small start. What was going wrong between himself and Louis? This ... feeling ... was something new. He'd never disliked Louis before. He didn't really dislike him now. It was only that his brother made him feel gauche, embarrassed, self-conscious. But why? He was certainly as much of a success in his own field as Louis was in bacteriology.
Yes—but he'd had to work a lot harder at it! It was as though they'd both been born typists, and Louis' mutation had included a pair of extra hands. There was a hint of unfairness in it. Men were supposed to be created equal. Though, of course, they never were. The blind, precise rearrangement of genes took care of that thoroughly.
Suddenly he ached to surpass his brother in something—anything!
Louis' dark, friendly stare studied Breden. "What's on your mind?" he demanded. "I just told you there was a bubonic plague germ crawling up your arm and you nodded and said 'Sure, sure.' Is there trouble?"
Breden said, "Trouble? No. Why should there be?"
"I don't know. I don't even know why you came to see me, instead of stopping off in Colorado. After all, Margaret's there, not here. There's nothing wrong between you two, is there?"
There could never be that, Breden thought. He managed a smile.
"Relax," he said. "I'm just anxious for my week off, that's all. Overwork. It could happen to anybody."
"Yeah," Louis said, unconvinced. "I suppose those doctors out there—they know their stuff?"
"I'm healthy."
"Well, I'm no medico. But medicine's just a little too conservative these days. I know it has to be. But I always thought more of old Springfield than anybody else. He was a witch-doctor in a lot of ways. Just the same, a man like that—" Louis hesitated. "Efficiency is a wonderful thing. But the human organism isn't efficient. A slightly unorthodox GP with psychiatric leanings might be a good guy to balance your aseptic robot medics at your base."
Breden said stubbornly, "There's nothing wrong with me, Louis. The minute you see a man, you start looking for bacilli and taking his blood count."
"Not me. I'm a bacteriologist. People are just cultures to me. That babe over there." He indicated a handsome wench at a nearby table. "A hyperthyroid type. I can't help thinking what a wonderful broth she'd make for some nice germs. That's my first instinct. Luckily I have secondary reactions." He eyed the girl speculatively, but she ignored him. Louis sighed and turned back to his brother.
-
"Some nonpolitical group tried to get me to join 'em this morning," he said. "The Neoculturalists. Ever heard of 'em?"
Breden shook his head. "Should I know what they are?"
"Not necessarily. There've been a lot of these blocs lately, though. People always want to scratch. When they haven't got an itch, they imagine it. But there's no cure, I guess. There isn't any cure for shingles, though there could be. Itches in the body politic. Maybe it's some social virus. Do you suppose there could be any trouble, Joe?"
Breden, startled, said, "Of course not! Who'd make trouble?"
"People who itch," Louis said. "Not that they could do much. The minute a bloc gets too big, GPC steps in. But I can't help wondering—I'm no physicist. And I'm not asking questions; I know your work is top secret. I'm just idly asking if you've heard anything."
"Such as?"
"That's what I don't know. Call it trouble. I suppose you'd know if there were any extra precautions being taken?"
"I'd know, of course," Breden said. "I think you're the one who had better relax now. Nobody's going to drop an atomic bomb on our base."
Louis looked startled. "Lord, I hadn't considered ... I merely thought there was a little more unrest than usual. More organizations and blocs. These boys were sounding me out about interplanetary travel."
"That's illegal."
"It isn't illegal to talk about it. But I admit it's unusual."
Breden said, "Interplanetary travel was banned eighty-five years ago, wasn't it?"
"Eighty-five years," Louis agreed, and his hand came up swiftly and touched the patch of gray at one temple. He seemed unconscious of the gesture. "We reached the Moon, and Mars—"
"And Venus," Breden said. "But only Venus was inhabited—and by an amphibious race. They didn't have atomic power or even jet propulsion. So it's safe to leave Venus alone. And of course it's safest to stay right here on earth. GPC can check bases here."
"I know the angle. Somebody might establish a base on the Moon and drop bombs. The difficulties are—"
"Are not insurmountable," Breden explained. "The time-lag might make all the difference; before we could locate the interplanetary base and destroy it, our centers could be smashed. And a few spaceships, being mobile, could drop bombs on Earth and skip around so fast we could never locate them."
"O.K. so these Neoculturalists thought we should have a few GPC controlled industries and ports on the Moon. They stressed the angle of GPC control."
"Lunatic fringe," Breden said.
"They're not the only ones. There are plenty of groups these days."
"But you can't allow interplanetary travel—"
"Oh, don't try to convince me," Louis said. "We're vulnerable now that we're centralized under GPC. If you live in big cities, you've got to make thoroughly certain that nobody can make bombs or drop them or have any bases. I believe it."
Competent, casual, perfectly satisfied, he sat there across the table, and Breden was weakened by a quick surge of emotion that caught him unawares. And he could not quite analyze it. It boomeranged back, that wave of—anger?—and left him weak and at a loss.
"I've got to catch a plane," he said abruptly.
Louis stood up. "All right, kid," he agreed. "Give my love to Margaret. And—give me a call any time you want, will you?"
"Sure," Breden said. He left Louis at the door. After he had gone a few steps, he stopped, turned, and watched the mutant mingle with the crowds on the sliding ways.
What next? He tried to make plans. But his thoughts jumped ahead to the time when he was due back at the Pacific island. Then he knew what troubled him most immediately. He was afraid of night. He was afraid of the recurrent dream that night would bring.
-
Maturity brought its own problems. He sat in the televisor booth and watched directory pages sliding across the screen. As a child, there had been
no responsibility. He wouldn't want those days back, of course; maturity has its compensations, and security had to be earned. But that hard-won safety was slipping from beneath him. And there was no anchor, no dependable refuge, no one to whom he could delegate his problem. For the fault must lie in himself, and it was perhaps a very serious one. He could not go to the proper medical authorities and lay his vague story before them. They would sympathize and do their best to cure him, but they would also remove him from his post. They would have to do that.
What about Mike de Anza?
Mike had been close to him since their university days; Mike, too, had become a nuclear physicist. They still saw each other often. And Mike would be highly curative. He was a chubby, blond, wide-eyed man with an unquenchable enthusiasm for practically everything, and a deep sympathy for any of his friends who might need help. Mike de Anza might be able to suggest something. It would be safe to talk to him, anyway. And that was a vital factor.
Relieved, Breden placed the call. But de Anza was out, and no one knew when he would be back.
Then—Margaret?
No. He couldn't dump his trouble in her lap at this time. Louis was not the one; he had tried that already. Carrie Kohl—no! Who, then?
Nobody. Nobody he knew.
Well, what about somebody he didn't know? What about Springfield? It had been twelve years since he had seen the old physician. And Springfield was unorthodox, so much so that he wasn't held in high esteem by the medical authorities of the GPC.
The pressure was unendurable. He had to talk to someone. Make it Springfield, then.
He made it Springfield.
-
Dr. Sam Springfield lived in the suburbs. He was seventy-three, a gaunt, white-haired man with wrinkled, drooping eyelids and liver-spotted hands. The neighborhood was as shabby as was permissible. There was only one nurse, who also served as receptionist, a tired-looking woman with unlikely auburn hair.
She announced Breden and went out. Breden shook hands with the old physician, sat down in a comfortable plastic chair, and presently was smoking. Springfield looked at him.
"Sedative cigarette," he said. "Why, Joe?"
"That's what I want to talk to you about. But it's got to be highly confidential. First I want your promise that you won't pass this on to anyone. I mean anyone."
Springfield blinked. "What have you been up to? Murder or treason? Let me try your pulse."
"Not just yet, please. There's time enough for that later. I mean this, Doc; I hold a responsible position, and if I'm not in perfect health, I'll be fired."
Springfield said, "I know what position you hold. I see Louis occasionally. But he never told me you were ill."
"I ... I'm not, physically. The medics at the base would have caught anything like that."
"Mental?" Springfield said.
"You've done a lot of psychiatric work, haven't you?"
"Not so much lately. I'm getting old, Joe. I'm satisfied just to sit back. Anyhow, research is forbidden, except along conventional lines."
"Not forbidden," Breden said.
"That's what it amounts to, though, doesn't it? Ah, well. People are getting conditioned against research anyway. Well, what's bothering you? Hear voices or something?" Springfield laughed and lit a black cigar.
Breden said, "My work is to guard Uranium Pile One. Well, I've been having recurrent dreams. In my dream I detonate the pile."
"Uh. You do, eh? Well, go on."
"That's all."
"How do you feel about it, I mean? In the dream? Happy or scared? Do you wake up feeling better or worse?"
"Worse. I'm scared. Naturally."
"But you detonate the pile anyhow."
"It's like a compulsion," Breden said painfully. "I suppose it's easy to explain. The medics at the base could do it and cure it. But then I'd be fired."
"Funny word to use," Springfield said. "People don't get fired nowadays. We've got security. What would you do if they fired you?"
Breden hesitated. "I ... don't know. It would be the end, pretty much."
"Yet you could be cured of this ailment, whatever it is, and go on into different work—along your own line, naturally."
"I suppose I could."
"But this is the only work you care about?"
"It's the most important work in the world," Breden said with violence.
"It is, eh? Why?"
"Well ... it's obvious. After all, a uranium pile—"
"Just what's the nature of your work, if you can tell me."
"I can tell you some of it." Breden did. Springfield waved his cigar impatiently.
"You sit around and look at dials. But the machines—those robot gadgets you mentioned—they'd take care of any trouble, wouldn't they?"
"To a certain extent. They aren't intelligent. Some emergencies might arise that would necessitate trained human reactions."
"Well, let's make some tests," Springfield said, standing up. "Take off your shirt. Now—"
-
Finally he returned to his desk and made marks on a pad. Breden, zipping his open-necked shirt into place, watched the doctor anxiously.
Springfield said, "How's your wife, Joe?"
"Fine. We're expecting a child, you know."
"Yes, Louis told me. I had three of my own. Don't see 'em much nowadays; they're all married. However, a normal home's very useful therapy; it's a good environment. Why don't you take a long furlough from your work and stay with Margaret for a bit?"
Breden said, "No. They'd ask questions—there is something wrong, then?"
"You could call it that. Joe, I'm going to ask you something."
"Well?"
"How would you feel about going to your own medics at your base and telling them everything you told me?"
Breden stood up quickly. "No. It would mean—"
"It would symbolize failure to you; I know that. But I've found something extremely important. More important than either of us. I want you to listen to me now."
Breden said furiously, "I came here for help! This is confidential; you promised me—"
Springfield put his hand up to his forehead. He said, "Joe, please listen. You've been under—"
The televisor buzzed.
Automatically, Breden glanced toward it. There was—
-
—something different about the room. A noise. A faint noise he remembered. The televisor was silent and blank. But Springfield lay where he had fallen across his desk. It must have been the noise of his body thudding softly down. That was it. Yes, that was it.
"Doc!" Breden said urgently. He caught the man by the shoulders and lifted him back into his chair. There was no sign of breathing. Breden scarcely waited to check the heartbeat; he went hastily into the outer office to find the nurse.
The auburn-haired woman was gone; there was a smart-looking girl with sleek black hair and orchid lipstick. She looked up inquiringly. Breden said, "The doctor—I think he's dying."
Being a nurse, she knew what to do, and did it efficiently. She even enlisted Breden's aid to help her inject adrenalin directly into Springfield's heart muscle. But the doctor was thoroughly dead.
Breden said helplessly, "He was sitting there talking to me—"
"I believe it must have been his heart," the nurse said, studying the body with a practiced air. "He had angina, you know. The emergency medics will be here in a moment. I've called them."
Breden drew a long breath.
-
V
The Freak said plaintively, "I don't want to think yet. I can't. The sutures are still open. Must I?"
Ortega said, "You must."
"Then turn the lights off. My head hurts."
Ortega dimmed the glow and the Freak opened two of his eyes. He whined a little. "My head—"
Very carefully Ortega adjusted the flow through the tank that kept the Freak's head moist in its saline solution. The Freak said, "When can I get out of this thing, Rod?"
"
Perhaps never. Not in my lifetime, unless—"
"It isn't worth it. It isn't worth it. Let me die."
"You don't mean that. You know what chance you have."
"It costs too much. That thing is coming up again."
"Your rational periods are much more frequent now the pressure's off and you're in the right condition. You'd have died in the sanatorium. I couldn't have tried these new methods there. Once you're back to complete sanity, things should speed up tremendously. But we can't wait till then."
"Oh, I don't care. My head aches."
"Even you can't wait. You'll be dead before this chance comes again, unless we take advantage of it now. We can't get what we need here. Equipment, yes, but not the power. We can't tap enough of it. It'd be noticed."
The Freak said wearily, "Well, what now?"
Ortega's gentle hands adjusted the temperature in the tank. "That better? Good. We had to move fast in New York this morning. We covered up, but handling Breden will be more delicate than we expected—and we knew it would be delicate. He's beginning to talk."
"Oh. And?"
"That's taken care of. However, Breden's on duty tonight again, and then off for a week. I want to know if we can make him move tonight."
The Freak stared into the darkness, considering. "No, we can't. It would be fatal. He isn't ready. The conditioning is incomplete. We must work on his conscious as well as his unconscious, and that takes time. The shadows are—"
"Easy!"
"Yes. All right. It will be necessary to—Opening my head to give my brain more room was necessary but it lets the shadows in and they are hungry today."
"Easy. Stop thinking. Stop thinking."
But the Freak had opened his third eye and the darkness was no barrier. He whined, "They only want my type of brain. It's your fault. You didn't have to work with atomic radiation and they're chewing in fast reaching the—STOP THEM. STOP—"
Ortega snapped on a dim light and very quickly made a hypodermic injection. The echoing screams stopped. Sweat stood on Ortega's forehead under the smooth gray hair. His mouth was tight.
The monster lay still now.
After a while Ortega said, "Relax. Don't think. All right now?"