by Hammond, Ray
‘If the match is forty per cent or less they might as well get a recycled part on the welfare market. They’re going to have to use cyclosporine and all the other immuno-suppressants for years. If it’s above sixty-five per cent, they’ll still have to use them, but they’ve got a ninety per cent chance of the transplant holding. Above ninety per cent and everybody’s a winner. No drugs are needed at all. Obviously we ensure the successful bidder makes full payment before the shipment is approved.’
‘How did we get this liver?’
Zorzi signalled at one of the members of staff perched on the edge of a desk. ‘This is Doctor Mohammed Ebrahimi, our senior bereavement counsellor. He’s also our head counselling trainer and a consultant thanatologist.’
A squat, sallow, grossly overweight middle-aged man stood up. He had a bushy black moustache and he wore an over-formal three-piece dark suit. He made a deep, ostentatiously oleaginous bow.
‘That was one of mine, Tom,’ Ebrahimi explained in an old-fashioned, Farsi-accented style of English. Despite the air conditioning, he was sweating visibly. ‘It was really very easy. The LifeWatch intervened when the poor donor suffered an MI – a heart attack. Very sad. I got to the widow in Mumbai – in India – within an hour. She spoke very good English although, as you know, next door we can cope with one hundred and eighty-six different languages. You understand that auto-translation isn’t a very suitable thing in bereavement counselling. We are often the ones who have to break the news to the NOKs and it doesn’t come out right. So, anyway, this NOK was quite composed. I should say your wonderful, wonderful counselling message helped a lot, Tom. Thank you very much for that.’
‘Can we show Tom how that message came out?’ called Zorzi, looking over at the controller. He was pleased at how well this was going.
The right-hand screen refreshed and Tye was looking at his own image. He was in darkness, so that only his face was lit with a soft glow.
‘[NOK Salutation space, NOK Family Name space.] I know there are times when even a LifeWatch can’t help us,’ his image said gently, looking earnestly into the camera. His tones were deep and mellisonant, as designed by the otolaryngologist over thirty years before. ‘I know how you must be feeling. You have lost someone very close. I extend my sympathies.’
There was a short pause as if Tye was gathering himself. Quiet organ music started in the background.
‘But, if you’ll agree, some good can come out of this. Allow me to find a way for [Deceased Salutation space, Deceased Family Name space]’ – there was a short pause, then increased emphasis – ‘[Deceased Given Name space] to help others. Our recycling program guarantees the best future for – [Deceased Given Name possessive apostrophe space] – life to be of help to others. And you will also contribute to helping the Thomas Tye Foundation so that other lives can be saved.’
The figure paused.
All in the room inhaled involuntarily and held their breath as the ScentSims added a most pleasing fragrance. Zee Zee had debated for months with the olfactorologists about the right note to strike at this point in the message. In the end they had created a fragrance they called ‘Strawberry.’ It was the smell of a newborn baby’s crown.
‘LifeLines can take care of all the details now. One of our counsellors will speak to you personally in a moment. I just wanted a moment to express my regret and to say . . .’
There was another pause and the camera slowly zoomed in towards the face. The music stopped.
‘Reach out and touch me.’
Tye’s hand appeared and he reached out towards the lens.
‘Touch me and [Deceased Given First Name space] can touch the world.’ His finger flattened as he pressed it to the lens and a faint golden corona appeared.
‘And, thank you. May your God bless you.’
The video image faded to darkness and even those in the administration area felt its impact as the screen flickered and returned to normal display.
‘Very powerful,’ breathed Zorzi, breaking the collugency. ‘Of course, you were kind enough to give us sufficient video material to allow us to morph your mouth around whatever names you need to say – even the long Russian ones. Then we morph the whole message into all of the various languages. The result is very realistic. We even select a threnody appropriate for the local culture. Want to see a replay in Russian? We use gusli music.’
Tye held his hand up to quell the young auction designer’s enthusiasm. He’d seen more than enough lip-synch morphing over the years and he already knew that the morphotactioners in Tye Digital Arts were the best in the world.
‘Tell me about the total yield on this deal.’
‘The widow was most keen for full recycling procedures,’ smirked Ebrahimi, a model of morigeration. ‘She agreed to twenty per cent of the net receipts, as Mr Zorzi said. We instructed the local surgeons, and the excellent Tye Logistics delivered the MatchBoxes in under an hour. Procedures were complete inside three hours.’
‘That’s the way we’d like them all to be,’ broke in Zorzi.
‘How many other commodities can we recycle from this donor?’ asked Tye.
‘Every high-ticket item except the heart and lungs,’ beamed the necrophilic negotiator. ‘The widow even accepted a closed-casket funeral so we could harvest the face and hands for the burns, skin-cancer and identity-replacement markets. For that, we pay all the exequial expenses.’
Tom nodded his approval.
‘The kidneys went immediately, I think,’ reported Zorzi. ‘Some oilman from Uzbekistan trounced everybody with a pre-emptive eighteen-million-dollar bid. The corneas also went quickly, bone marrow is under way now . . .’
‘What will be the total recycle yield?’ asked Tye again.
‘About one hundred and two million,’ Zorzi estimated. ‘The widow will get twenty per cent, while storage and transport is paid for by the successful bidders. We pay local medical expenses for the recycling procedures. I would think we’ll net maybe seventy or eighty.’
‘How are the percentage splits holding up in general?’ queried Tye. ‘Are any of the families getting greedy?’
Zorzi signalled for the bereavement counsellor to respond.
‘Oh yes, but you see it is we who add the value to the meat,’ explained the happy grief counsellor. ‘We do get some greedy NOKs, but recycle potential exists for only a very few hours, so we just let them, how do you say it . . . stew.’ He emitted a high-pitched series of connected shrieks, as if someone had described to him what laughter was but then forgotten to provide an actual demonstration.
‘The trick is in finding the match and providing the storage. The actual recycled unit isn’t worth much without that. NOKs usually come round after a couple of hours – when they’re facing the choice of making a free donation to a charity or welfare health market, or making some serious money with us.’
‘Very good,’ commented Tye as he stood up. He turned to Connie. ‘Set me up to visit one of these auction winners in the recovery room. Choose an American kid, under twelve, and get the perception people to handle the media set-up.’
He looked back at the gangly Zorzi and slipped off his mask. He then walked his latest entreprenerd a few steps away from the main group.
‘Have you got a capitalization in mind for the stock-market offering?’
Zorzi scratched his goatee again. ‘I’d guess around forty billion.’
Tye beamed. ‘I’ll have a bet with you. With this rate of earnings we’ll reach a hundred.’
He paused in thought. The success of the auction models had given him another idea. ‘Can all this work without you now?’
Zorzi nodded. ‘Yeah. I’ve only got to finish designing the suicide-reserve module – as the prices will have to be higher. The condition of organs from most suicides is much better than those that come to the market from natural deaths. I want it all up and working before the autumn. The actuaries say there’s a big rise in suicides around the Christmas holidays and the New Year and I wa
nt to be ready.’
Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘Get someone else to finish up for you,’ he said quietly. ‘Meanwhile, talk to Connie and fix to come by the house. I’ve got something for you that will make this stuff seem like chicken feed.’
Zorzi smiled. He couldn’t imagine any market that would be better than this – but an invitation to the Tye mansion!
Tom turned back towards the expectant faces. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We’ll go for an IPO in eight weeks. And we’ll all be seriously rich.’ There was no trace of irony in his voice.
He turned on his heel and walked from the building, spraying his mouth as he did so. Connie followed, hard upon his heels. The ceremonial ribbon remained intact, hanging limply between the potted palms.
But Zee Zee didn’t mind at all. He had some calls to make.
Chapter Eleven
The flowers filled Calypso’s living room. They had arrived while she had been consulting with HR and Logistics about helicopter availability. She had decided she would spend a month with her mother before making contact with the medical staff agencies on the American mainland to begin the search for a new job.
Two men from the spaceport’s busy courier office had been drafted in to make the delivery from the exclusive flower boutique in the town square. The Volante pick-up they used seemed to be overflowing when they started to unload, and it took them ten minutes to carry all the baskets and bunches into Calypso’s bungalow while she frantically cleared surfaces on which to put them. Each display had a small handwritten card identifying its blooms. There were giant white atamasco lilies from Virginia, mauve calceolaria from Venezuela, a Japanese ikebana arrangement with white chrysanthemums set against gravel and bleached drift twigs collected from the island’s beaches, a stunning arrangement of chocolate-tinted odontoglot orchids from Brazil, a dozen strongly scented burgundy Hope roses (grown on the island) and a dazzling array of spotted purple, yellow and white tiger-flowers collected from the swamps of Florida’s Everglades.
When every flat surface had been covered and her living room turned into a heady, aromatic bloomery they handed her a grey envelope and left. She slit it open and pulled out a card.
It was from Thomas Tye, and Calypso scanned his handwritten message with mixed feelings. She was still furious with him for the previous afternoon. Then she sat down and read the note again. His handwriting was elegant, almost female in quality, completely unlike her own scrawl.
Dear Dr Browne,
I’m truly sorry about yesterday. Tommy means a great deal to me but I was wrong to react in such a way.
Tommy was very upset by my behaviour and I have apologized to him. I’m afraid he is still somewhat upset and he is asking for you.
I hope you will be gracious enough to accept my apology and join us for lunch at the house today. Please contact Connie.
Yours,
Tom
She put the card down on her small coffee table and looked around her flower-filled room. Suddenly she sneezed. Then she sneezed again. She went outside into the heat and sneezed twice more.
Two hours later Calypso took the Mag to the house. The shuttle stopped as it approached the steel security doors shuttering the tunnel leading to Tye’s private residence. Calypso turned her head and squarely faced the camera lens set into the wall. The doors parted at the middle and the shuttle sped forward into the brightly lit tunnel.
Tommy was waiting on the little station platform right underneath the house. Even before she climbed out she could see that he had been crying. She had dressed in a white linen shirt and white Bermuda shorts for what, she anticipated, was going to be a rather awkward meeting.
She squatted on the platform and Tommy threw his arms around her neck in silence. She forced herself not to kiss him but she stroked his back as he clung to her.
‘It’s OK, Tommy,’ she soothed. ‘There are no bones broken, are there?’
As she stood, he continued to gaze up at her, clutching Jed. Tommy’s companion had recently been upgraded by Professor Keane’s researchers and he now disliked being left alone.
‘Hello, Calypso,’ said the red caterpillar.
Calypso heard doors open, then Connie stepped out of the elevator.
‘Welcome, Calypso. Tom’s waiting for you inside.’
By tacit agreement they said nothing as they rode the four floors up to Tom’s main living area. Tommy clung to Calypso with one hand while squeezing Jed with the other.
‘You’re hurting me,’ complained Jed. Calypso knew how that felt.
The elevator stopped but the doors did not open.
‘Hold your breath,’ warned Connie.
Calypso felt a wave of damp cold air wash through the car. Then, at last, the doors slid open.
Tye was waiting for them in his main living hall, a room Calypso hadn’t visited before. It was of double height, clad in brilliant white Carrara marble, and she guessed the ceiling was over thirty feet high. The vast unpolished, slate-grey stone floor was strewn with ancient Afshar, Sehna and Shah Abbas Persian rugs arranged around a score of fine classical sculptures. Pale sofas were grouped to form seating areas.
Although she had heard about them, it was still a thrill to see the giant Jackson Pollocks and Hockneys, the Picasso nudes – and, displayed all on its own at the far end of the room, that Rembrandt, an image she remembered from her childhood. She would have liked more time to study the small but exquisite art collection.
The room’s east-facing wall was constructed entirely of photoreactive plate glass. In the bright sunlight it had darkened protectively to lessen the glare.
She noticed a slight swelling on Tye’s left cheek, as he extended a hand with a smile. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but respond.
‘Apology accepted?’
Calypso conjured up a small grin, then took his hand. She noticed it was small-boned and extremely fine. She had never shaken hands with him before.
‘Let’s go out onto the terrace,’ said Tye, leading the way across the hall. A full-height pane of glass slid to one side and they stepped out onto the white tiled terrace. A table had been set up under a large sun umbrella where Tye’s butler and one of the maids stood waiting for the luncheon party.
Calypso’s first impressions were of dazzling light and considerable elevation. Beyond the waist-high safety rail, the hillside fell in wide, stepped terraces to the beach and the emerald ocean below. The view was breathtaking and she found herself gaping in awe up and down the length of the island.
‘It is beautiful, isn’t it?’ observed Tye, as he pulled a chair out for her. ‘But then, you know these islands well, Doctor.’
Calypso smiled again, spontaneously this time. She had been wondering whether she could see Haiti on the southern horizon.
Once seated, they each took one of the warm antiseptic towels that were offered.
Tye was at his most charming as lunch got under way. He recounted how he had discovered Hope Island and what a tough deal Cuba had struck over ceding it. He went on to describe the protracted negotiations with the United Nations for sovereign recognition and how his corporation had bowed to Cuban and American pressure to forgo all forms of arms development and manufacture here and to maintain no armed forces other than those required for internal and coastal security. He was explaining how he had personally chosen the site for the house when Connie interrupted him. ‘I have President Orlov’s cabinet secretary for you.’
‘I’ll get back to him,’ said Tye.
He turned back to Calypso and apologized. ‘Sorry, Doctor. I was supposed to be in Moscow for lunch today but I wanted a chance to make things up with you.’
Calypso did her best to smile in what she hoped was a gracious and understanding fashion. He had cancelled lunch with a head of state to see her. How bizarre Tye’s world seemed – and, of course, Tommy’s.
‘It’s very hot today,’ Jed offered, breaking the silence. Tommy laughed and they all laughed with him.
They were first served a salmon mousse, and then the chef offered a choice of sushi or soya-duck in a bigarade sauce. Tye had fish for both courses, while Calypso and Connie ordered the pseudo-duck. A huge basket of crisply fried coarse-cut Hope Island potatoes (guaranteed non-fattening) was served on the side. Tommy, who had been silently gazing at Calypso all through the lunch, was brought tofu-chicken nuggets in tempura batter served on a bed of wild rice. A very chilled Pouilly Fuissé was served, which Calypso enjoyed greatly although she noticed that Tye drank only mineral water.
When he had eaten most of his main course, Tommy asked to be excused. His father nodded and the boy got down from the table.
Connie rose. ‘I’ll take him to see Nurse Pettigrew.’
Tye smiled his approval.
‘Can Calypso come and play with me later?’ asked Tommy.
Tye looked at the doctor questioningly. Calypso nodded.
‘She’ll be along later, son,’ he said. ‘Enjoy yourself.’
‘May we watch a cartoon?’ asked Jed.
After the plates were cleared, they were left on their own. Tye cleared his throat and turned in his chair to face Calypso squarely. He took off the sunglasses he had been wearing. ‘You don’t think much of me as a father, do you, Doctor?’
Calypso stared at her employer’s beautiful face and tried to read some of the secrets hidden behind those vivid violet eyes.
‘No, I can’t say I do,’ she confirmed slowly. She tilted her head back. ‘You’re over-protective to the point of doing him harm. You’ve employed me because I’m a paediatric psychiatrist and I have to tell you that if I examined this boy in a clinical environment I would classify him as already significantly disturbed.’