Roger came along with no argument. "Goodbye, Dorrie," he said, and did not wait for an answer. He had trouble fitting himself into Don Kayman's little car, but his wings folded down. By pushing the reclining seat back as far as it would go he was able to manage, in a cramped and precarious position that would have been hopelessly uncomfortable for any normal human being. Roger, of course, was not a normal human being. His muscular system was content with prolonged overloads in almost any configuration it could bend into at all.
They were silent until they were almost at the project. Then Don Kayman cleared his throat. "You had us worried."
"I thought I would," said the flat cyborg voice. The wings stirred restlessly, writhing against each other like a rubbing of hands. "I wanted to see her, Don. It was important to me."
"I can understand that." Kayman turned into the broad, empty parking lot. "Well?" he probed. "Are things all right?"
The cyborg mask turned toward him. The great compound eyes gleamed like faceted ebony, without expression, as Roger said: "You're a jerk, Father Kayman, sir. How all right can they be?"
Sulie Carpenter thought wistfully of sleep, as she might think of a vacation on the French Riviera. They were equally out of the question at that moment. She took two caps of amphetamines and a B-l2 injection, self-administered into the places in her arm she had learned to locate long ago.
The simulation of Roger's reactions had been compromised by the power failure, so she did it over again from punch-in to readout. We were content that this should be so. It gave us a chance to make a few corrections.
While she was waiting she took a long, hot soak in a hydrotherapy tub, and when the simulation had run she studied it carefully. She had taught herself to read the cryptic capital letters and integers, to guard against programming errors, but this time she spared the hardware no time and went at once to the plain-language readout at the end. She was very good at her job.
That job did not happen to be ward nurse. Sulie Carpenter had been one of the first of the aerospace female doctors. She had her degree in medicine, had specialized in psychotherapy, all the myriad eclectic disciplines of it, and had gone into the space program because nothing on Earth seemed really worth doing to her. After completing astronaut training she had come to wonder if there was anything in space that was worth doing either. Research had seemed at least abstractly worth while, so she had applied for work with the California study teams and got it. There had been a fair number of men in her life, one or two of them important to it. None of them had worked out. That much of what she had told Roger had been true; and after the most recent bruising failure she had contracted her area of interest until, she told herself, she grew up enough to know what she wanted from a man. And there she stayed, sidetracked in a loop off the main current of human affairs, until we turned up her card out of all the hundreds of thousands of punched cards, to fill Roger's need.
When her orders came, wholly without warning, they were directly from the President himself. There was no way she could have refused the assignment. Actually she had no desire to. She welcomed the change. Mother-henning a hurting human being stroked the feelgood centers of her personality; the importance of the job was clear to her, because if there was any faith in her it was in the Mars project; and she was aware of her competence. Of competence she had a great deal. We rated her very high, a major piece in the game we were playing for the survival of the race.
When she had finished with Roger's simulation it was nearly four in the morning.
She slept a couple of hours in a borrowed bed in the nurses' quarters. Then she showered, dressed and put her green contact lenses in. She was not happy with that particular aspect of her job, she reflected on the way to Roger's room. The dyed hair and the change of eye color were deceptions; she did not like to deceive. One day she would like to leave out the contacts and let her hair go back to its muddy blond—oh, maybe helped out a little with a rinse, to be sure; she did not object to artifice, only to pretending to be something she wasn't.
But when she entered Roger's room she was smiling. "Lovely to see you back. We missed you. How was it, running around on your own?"
"Not bad at all," said the flat voice. Roger was standing by the window, staring out at the blobs of tumbleweed lumping and bouncing across the parking lot. He turned to her. "You know, it's all true, what you said. What I've got now isn't just different, it's better."
She resisted the desire to reinforce what he had said, and only smiled as she began to strip his bed. "I was worried about sex," he went on. "But you know what, Sulie? It's like being told I can't have any caviar for the next couple of years. I don't like caviar. And when you come right down to it, I don't want sex right now. I suppose you punched that into the computer? 'Cut down sex drive, increase euphoria'? Anyway, it finally penetrated my little brain that I was just making trouble for myself, worrying about whether I could get along without something I really didn't want. It's a reflection of what I think other people think I should want."
"Acculturation," she supplied.
"No doubt," he said, "Listen, I want to do something for you."
He picked up the guitar, propped himself against the window frame with one heel against the sill, and settled the instrument across his knee. His wings quietly rearranged themselves over his head as he began to play.
Sulie was startled. He was not merely playing; he was singing. Singing? No, it was a sound more like a man whistling through his teeth, faint but pure. His fingers on the guitar strummed and plucked an accompaniment while the keening whistle from his lips flowed through the melody of a tune she had never heard before.
When he had finished she demanded, "What was that?"
"It's a Paganini sonata for guitar and violin," he said proudly. "Clara gave me the record."
"I didn't know you could do that. Humming, I mean—or whatever it was."
"I didn't either until I tried. I can't get enough volume for the violin part, of course. And I can't keep the guitar sound low enough to balance it, but it didn't sound bad, did it?"
"Roger," she said, meaning it, "I'm impressed."
He looked up at her and impressed her again by managing a smile. He said, "I bet you didn't know I could do that, either. I didn't know it myself till I tried."
At the meeting Sulie said flatly, "He's ready, General."
Scanyon had managed enough sleep to look rested, and enough of something else, some inner resource or whatever, to look less harried. "You're sure, Major Carpenter?"
She nodded her head. "He'll never be readier." She hesitated. Vern Scanyon, reading her expression, waited for the amendment. "The problem, as I see it, is that he's right to go now. All his systems are up to operating level. He's worked through his thing with his wife. He's ready. The longer he stays around here, the more chance that she'll do something to upset his balance."
"I doubt that very much," said Scanyon, frowning.
"Well, she knows what trouble she'll be in. But I don't want to take that chance, I want him to move."
"You mean take him down to Merritt Island?"
"No. I want to put him on hold."
Brad spilled coffee from the cup he had been raising to his lips. "No way, sweetie!" he cried, genuinely shocked. "I have seventy-two more hours testing on his systems! If you slow him down I can't get readings—"
"Testing for what, Dr. Bradley? For his operating efficiency, or for the sake of the papers you're going to write on him?"
"Well—Christ, certainly I'm going to write him up. But I want to check him as thoroughly as possible, every minute I can, for his sake. And for the mission's."
She shrugged. "That's still my recommendation. There's nothing for him to do here but wait. He's had enough of that."
"What if something goes wrong on Mars?" Brad demanded.
She said, "You wanted my recommendation. That's it."
Scanyon put in, "Please make sure we all know what you're talking about. Especially me."
/> Sulie looked toward Brad, who said, "We've planned to do that for the voyage, General, as you know. We have the capacity to override his internal clocks by external computer mediation. There are—let's see—five days and some hours to launch; we can slow him down so that his subjective time is maybe thirty minutes over that period. It makes sense—but what I said makes sense, too, and I can't take the responsibility for letting him out of my hands until I've made every test I want to make."
Scanyon scowled. "I understand what you're saying; it's a good point, and I've got a point of my own, too. What happened to what you were saying last night, Major Carpenter? About not cutting off his behavior modification too abruptly."
Sulie said, "He's at a plateau stage, General. If I could have another six months with him I'd take it. Five days, no; there's more risk than there is benefit. He's found a real interest in his guitar—you should hear him. He's built up really structurally good defenses in regard to his lack of sexual organs. He has even taken things into his own hands by running out last night— that's a major step, General; his profile was much too passive to be good, when you consider the demands of this mission. I say put him on hold now."
"And I say I need more time with him," flared Brad. "Maybe Sulie's right. But I'm right too, and I'll take it to the President if I have to!"
Scanyon looked thoughtfully at Brad, then around the room. "Any other comments?"
Don Kayman put in, "For what it's worth, I agree with Sulie. He's not happy about his wife, but he's not shaken up either. This is as good a place as any for him to go."
"Yeah," said Scanyon, gently patting the desk top again. He looked into space, and then said, "There's something none of you know. Your simulation isn't the only one of Roger that has been done lately." He looked at each face and emphasized, "This is not to be discussed with anyone outside this room. The Asians are doing one of their own. They've tapped into our 3070 circuits somewhere between here and the two other computers and stolen all the data, and they've used it to make their own simulation."
"Why?" Don Kayman demanded, only a beat before the others at the table.
"That's what I wish I knew," said Scanyon heavily. "They're not interfering. We wouldn't have known about it if it wasn't for a routine line check that uncovered their tap—and then some cloak and dagger stuff in Peking that I don't know about and don't want to. All they did was read everything out and make their own program. We don't know what use they are going to make out of it, but there's a surprise in it. Right after that they dropped their protest against the launch. In fact, they offered the use of their Mars orbiter to expedite telemetry for the mission."
"I wouldn't trust them as far as I could throw them!" Brad flared.
"Well, we're not going to put much reliance on their bird, you can bet on that. But there it is: they say they want the mission to work. Well," he said, "that's just one more complication, but it all comes down to a single decision right now, correct? I have to make up my mind whether or not to put Roger on hold. Okay. I'll do it. I accept your recommendation, Major Carpenter. Tell Roger what we're going to do, and tell him whatever you and Dr. Ramez think you should about why. As for you, Brad"—he raised his hand to ward off Brad's protests—"I know what you're going to say. I agree. Roger needs more time with you. Well, he'll get it. I'm ordering you along on the mission." He slid a sheet of paper closer to him on his desk, crossed out one name on a list, wrote in another. "I'm going to drop one of the pilots to make room for you. I already checked. There's plenty of back-up, with the machine guidance systems and the fact that you all have had some pilot training anyhow. That's the final crew roster for the Mars launch: Torraway, Kayman, General Hesburgh as pilot—and you."
Brad protested. It was only a reflex. Once the idea had settled in he accepted it. What Scanyon had said was true enough, and besides, Brad perceived instantly that the career he had programmed for himself could not help but be enhanced by actual physical participation in the mission itself. It would be a pity to leave Dorrie, and all the Dorries, but there would be so many Dorries when he got back . . .
And everything else followed as the night the day. That was the last decision. Everything else was only implementation. On Merritt Island the crews began fueling the launch vehicle. The rescue ships were deployed across the Atlantic in case of failure. Brad was flown to the island for his fitting, with six ex-astronauts detailed to cram in all the touch-up teaching he needed and could get in the time available. Hesburgh was one of them, short, sure and smiling, his demeanor a constant reassurance. Don Kayman took a precious twelve-hour relief to say good-by to his nun.
With all of this we were quite content. We were content with the decision to send Brad along. We were content with the trendline extrapolations that every day showed more positive results from the effect of the launch on world opinion and events. We were content with Roger's state of mind. And with the NPA simulation of Roger we were most content of all; in fact, that was an essential to our plans for the salvation of the race.
Thirteen
When We Pass the Point of No Return
The long Hohmann-orbit trip to Mars takes seven months. All previous astronauts, cosmonauts and sinonauts had found them very wearing months indeed. Each day had 86,400 seconds to fill, and there was very little to fill them with.
Roger was different from all the others in two ways. First, he was the most precious passenger any spaceship had yet carried. In and around his body were the fruits of seven billion Man Plus dollars. To the maximum extent possible, he had to be spared.
The other way was that, uniquely, he could be spared.
His body clocks had been disconnected. His perception of time was what the computer told him it should be.
They slowed him down gradually, at first. People began to seem to move a little more briskly. Mealtime came sooner than he was ready for it. Voices grew shriller.
When that phased in nicely, they increased the retardation in his systems. Voices passed into high-pitched gibberish, and then out of his perception entirely. He hardly saw people at all, except as flickers of motion. They sealed off his room from the day—it was not to keep him from escaping, it was to protect him from the quick transition from day to night. Platters of room-temperature, picnic-style food appeared before him. When he had begun to push them away to signal he was done or didn't want them, they whisked out of sight.
Roger knew what was being done to him. He didn't mind. He accepted Sulie's promise that it was good, and needful, and all right. He thought he was going to miss Sulie and looked for a way to tell her so. There was a way, but it all went so rapidly; messages were chalked as if by magic on a board in front of him. When he responded, he found his answers snatched away and erased before he was quite sure he was through:
HOW ARE YOU FEELING?
Pick up the chalk, write one word.
FINE
and then the board is gone, brought back with another message—
WE'RE TAKING YOU TO MERRITT ISLAND.
And his reply:
I'M READY.
snatched away before he could add the rest, which he scrawled rapidly on his bedside table—
GIVE MY LOVE TO DORRIE
He had intended to add "and Sulie," but there was no time; suddenly the table was gone. He was gone from the room. There was a sudden dizzying lurch of movement. He caught a quick glimpse of the ambulance entrance to the project, and a quick phantom glimpse of a nurse—was it Sulie?—with her back to him, adjusting her panty hose. His whole bed seemed to leap into the air, into a brutal blaze of winter sunlight, then into—what? A car? Before he could even question, it sprang into the air, and he realized that it was a helicopter, and then that he was very close to being sick. He felt his gorge rising in his throat.
The telemetry faithfully reported, and the controls were adequate to the problem. He still felt he would like to vomit, feeling himself thrown around as though in the most violent sort of cross-chop sea, but he did not.
<
br /> Then they stopped.
Out of the helicopter.
Bright sunlight again.
Into something else—which he recognized, after it had begun to move, as the interior of a CB-5, fitted up as a hospital ship. Safety webbing spun magically around him.
It was not comfortable—there was still the hammering and the twisting vertigo, though not as unbearable—but it did not last long. A minute or two, it seemed to Roger. Then pressure smote his ears and they were taking him out of the plane, into blinding heat and light—Florida, of course, he realized tardily; but by then he was in an ambulance, then out of it . . .
Then, for a time that seemed to Roger ten or fifteen minutes and was actually the better part of a day, nothing happened except that he was in a bed, and was fed, and his wastes were removed by catheter, and then a note appeared before him:
GOOD LUCK, ROGER, WE'RE ON OUR WAY.
and then a steam hammer smote him from underneath and he lost consciousness. It is all very well, he thought, to spare me the inconvenience of boredom, but you may be killing me to do it. But before he could think of a way to communicate this to anyone he was out.
Time passed. A time of dreams.
He realized groggily that they had been keeping him sedated, not only slowed down but asleep; and in realizing this, he was awake.
There was no feeling of pressure. In fact, he was floating. Only a spiderweb of retaining straps kept him in place.
He was in space.
A voice spoke next to his ear: "Good morning, Roger. This is a tape recording."
He turned his head and found a tiny speaker grille next to his ear.
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