He was pain.
But it was pain he had known, analyzed, understood and could isolate. The pain contained all there was of Vicentelli’s identity. Encapsulated that way, it could be absorbed piecemeal, shredded off at will. And the new host’s flesh was grateful. With the Tegas came surcease from pain.
Slowly, the marching subsided.
The Tegas blocked off control circuits, adjusted Vicentelli’s tunic to conceal the capsule on his back, paused to contemplate how easy this capture had been. It required a dangerous change of pattern, yes: a Tegas must dominate, risk notice—not blend with his surroundings.
With an abrupt sense of panic, William Bailey came alive in his awareness. “We made it!”
In that instant, the Tegas was hanging by the hook of his being, momentarily lost in the host he’d just captured. The intermittency of mingled egos terrified and enthralled. As he had inhabited others, now he was inhabited.
Even the new host—silent, captivated—became part of a changed universe, one that threatened in a different way: all maw. He realized he’d lost contact with the intellectual centers. His path touched only nerve ends. He had no home for his breath, couldn’t find the flesh to wear it.
Bacit signals darted around him: a frantic, searching clamor. The flesh—the flesh—the flesh …
He’d worn the flesh too gently, he realized. He’d been lulled by its natural laws and his own. He’d put aside all reaching questions about the organism, had peered out of the flesh unconcerned, leaving all worries to the Bacit.
One axiom had soothed him: The Bacit knows.
But the Bacit was loosed around him and he no longer held the flesh. The flesh held him, a grip so close it threatened to choke him.
The flesh cannot choke me, he thought. It cannot. I love the flesh.
Love—there was a toehold, a germ of contact. The flesh remembered how he had eased its agony. Memories of other flesh intruded. Tendrils of association accumulated. He thought of all the flesh he’d loved on this world: the creatures with their big eyes, their ears flat against their heads, smooth caps of hair, beautiful mouths and cheeks. The Tegas always noticed mouths. The mouth betrayed an infinite variety of things about the flesh around it.
A Vicentelli self-image came into his awareness, swimming like a ghost in a mirror. The Tegas thought about the verseless record, the stone-cut mouth. No notion of fun—that was the thing about Vicentelli’s mouth.
He’ll have to learn fun now, the Tegas thought.
He felt the feet then, hard against the floor, and the Bacit was with him. But the Bacit had a voice that touched the auditory centers from within. It was the voice of William Bailey and countless others.
“Remove the signs of struggle before the androids return,” the voice said.
He obeyed, looked down at the empty flesh which had been Joe Carmichael. But Joe Carmichael was with him in this flesh, Vicentelli’s flesh, which still twitched faintly to the broadcast commands transmitted through the capsule on his spine.
“Have to remove the capsule as soon as possible,” the Bacit voice reminded. “You know the way to do it.”
The Tegas marveled at the Vicentelli overtones suddenly noticeable in the voice. Abruptly, he glimpsed the dark side of his being through Vicentelli, and he saw an aspect of the Bacit he’d never suspected. He realized he was a net of beings who enjoyed their captivity, were strong in their captivity, would not exchange it for any other existence.
They were Tegas in a real sense, moving him by habits of thought, shaping actions out of uncounted mediations. The Bacit half had accumulated more than forty centuries of mediations on this one world. And there were uncounted worlds before this one.
Language and thought.
Language was the instrument of the sentient being—yet, the being was the instrument of language as Tegas was the instrument of the Bacit. He searched for significant content in this new awareness, was chided by the Bacit’s sneer. To search for content was to search for limits where there were no limits. Content was logic and classification. It was a word sieve through which to judge experience. It was nothing in itself, could never satisfy.
Experience, that was the thing. Action. The infinite reenactment of life accompanied by its endless procession of images.
There are things to be done, the Tegas thought.
The control capsule pulsed on his spine.
The capsule, yes—and many more things.
They have bugged the soul, he thought. They’ve mechanized the soul and are forever damned. Well, I must join them for a while.
He passed a hand through a call beam, summoned the androids to clear away the discarded host that had been Carmichael.
A door opened at the far end of the lab. Three androids entered, marching in line towards him. They were suddenly an amusing six-armed figure, their arms moving that way in obedient cadence.
The Vicentelli mouth formed an unfamiliar smile.
Briefly he set the androids to the task of cleaning up the mess in the lab. Then, the Tegas began the quiet exploration of his new host, a task he found remarkably easy with his new understanding. The host cooperated. He explored Vicentelli slowly—strong, lovely, healthy flesh—explored as one might explore a strange land, swimming across coasts of awareness that loomed and receded.
A host had behavior that must be learned. It was not well to dramatize the Tegas difference. There would be changes, of course—but slow ones; nothing dramatic in its immediacy.
While he explored he thought of the mischief he could do in this new role. There were so many ways to disrupt the man-machine, to revive individualism, to have fun. Lovely mischief.
Intermittently, he wondered what had become of the Bailey ego and the Joe Carmichael ego. Only the Bacit remained in the host with him, and the Bacit transmitted a sensation of laughter.
PASSAGE FOR PIANO
Had some cosmic crystal gazer suggested to Margaret Hatchell that she would try to smuggle a concert grand piano onto the colony spaceship, she would have been shocked. Here she was at home in her kitchen on a hot summer afternoon, worried about how to squeeze ounces into her family’s meager weight allowance for the trip—and the piano weighed more than half a ton.
Before she had married Walter Hatchell, she had been a working nurse-dietician, which made her of some use to the colony group destined for Planet C. But Walter, as the expedition’s chief ecologist, was one of the most important cogs in the effort. His field was bionomics; the science of setting up the delicate balance of growing things to support human life on an alien world.
Walter was tied to his work at the White Sands base, hadn’t been home to Seattle for a month during this crucial preparation period. This left Margaret with two children and several problems—the chief problem being that one of their children was a blind piano prodigy subject to black moods.
Margaret glanced at the clock on her kitchen wall: three-thirty, time to start dinner. She wheeled the micro-filming cabinet out of her kitchen and down the hall to the music room to get it out of her way. Coming into the familiar music room, she suddenly felt herself a hesitant stranger here—almost afraid to look too closely at her favorite wing-back chair, or at her son’s concert grand piano, or at the rose pattern rug with afternoon sun streaming dappled gold across it.
It was a sensation of unreality—something like the feeling that had caught her the day the colonization board had notified them that the Hatchells had been chosen.
“We’re going to be pioneers on Planet C,” she whispered. But that made it no more real. She wondered if others among the 308 chosen colonists felt the same way about moving to a virgin world.
In the first days after the selection, when they all had been assembled at White Sands for preliminary instructions, a young astronomer had given a brief lecture.
“Your sun will be the star Giansar,” he had said, and his voice had echoed in the barnlike hall as he pointed to the star on the chart. “In the tail of constellation Drago
n. Your ship will travel sixteen years on sub-macro drive to make the passage from Earth. You already know, of course, that you will pass this time in sleep-freeze, and it’ll feel just like one night to you. Giansar has a more orange light than our sun, and it’s somewhat cooler. However, Planet C is closer to its sun, and this means your climate will average out warmer than we experience here.”
Margaret had tried to follow the astronomer’s words closely, just as she had done in the other lectures, but only the high points remained from all of them: orange light, warmer climate, less moisture, conserve weight in what you take along, seventy-five pounds of private luggage allowed for each adult, forty pounds for children to age fourteen …
Now, standing in her music room, Margaret felt that it must have been some other person who had listened to those lectures. I should be excited and happy, she thought. Why do I feel so sad?
At thirty-five, Margaret Hatchell looked an indeterminate mid-twenty with a good figure, a graceful walk. Her brown hair carried reddish lights. The dark eyes, full mouth and firm chin combined to give an impression of hidden fire.
She rubbed a hand along the curved edge of the piano lid, felt the dent where the instrument had hit the door when they’d moved here to Seattle from Denver. How long ago? she asked herself. Eight years? Yes … it was the year after Grandfather Maurice Hatchell died … after playing his final concert with this very piano.
Through the open back windows she could hear her nine-year-old, Rita, filling the summer afternoon with a discussion of the strange insects to be discovered on Planet C. Rita’s audience consisted of noncolonist playmates overawed by the fame of their companion. Rita was referring to their colony world as “Ritelle,” the name she had submitted to the Survey and Exploration Service.
Margaret thought: If they choose Rita’s name we’ll never hear the end of it … literally!
Realization that an entire planet could be named for her daughter sent Margaret’s thoughts reeling off on a new tangent. She stood silently in the golden shadows of the music room, one hand on the piano that had belonged to her husband’s father, Maurice Hatchell—the Maurice Hatchell of concert fame. For the first time, Margaret saw something of what the news service people had been telling her just that morning—that her family and all the other colonists were “chosen people,” and for this reason their lives were of tremendous interest to everyone on Earth.
She noted her son’s bat-eye radar box and its shoulder harness atop the piano. That meant David was somewhere around the house. He never used the box in the familiarity of his home where memory served in place of the sight he had lost. Seeing the box there prompted Margaret to move the microfilming cabinet aside where David would not trip over it if he came to the music room to practice. She listened, wondering if David was upstairs trying the lightweight electronic piano that had been built for him to take on the spaceship. There was no hint of his music in the soft sounds of the afternoon, but then he could have turned the sound low.
Thinking of David brought to her mind the boy’s tantrum that had ended the newsfilm session just before lunch. The chief reporter—What was his name? Bonaudi?—had asked how they intended to dispose of the concert grand piano. She could still hear the awful discord as David had crashed his fists onto the keyboard. He had leaped up, dashed from the room—a dark little figure full of impotent fury.
Twelve is such an emotional age, she told herself.
Margaret decided that her sadness was the same as David’s. It’s the parting with beloved possessions … it’s the certain knowledge that we’ll never see these things again … that all we’ll have will be films and lightweight substitutes. A sensation of terrible longing filled her. Never again to feel the homely comfort of so many things that spell family tradition: the wing-back chair Walter and I bought when we furnished our first house, the sewing cabinet that great-great grandmother Chrisman brought from Ohio, the oversize double bed built specially to accommodate Walter’s long frame …
Abruptly, she turned away from the piano, went back to the kitchen. It was a white tile room with black fixtures, a laboratory kitchen cluttered now with debris of packing. Margaret pushed aside her recipe files on the counter beside the sink, being careful not to disturb the yellow scrap paper that marked where she’d stopped microfilming them. The sink was still piled with her mother’s Spode china that was being readied for the space journey. Cups and saucers would weigh three and a half pounds in their special packing. Margaret resumed washing the dishes, seating them in the delicate webs of the lightweight box.
The wall phone beside her came alive to the operator’s face. “Hatchell residence?”
Margaret lifted her dripping hands from the sink, nudged the call switch with her elbow. “Yes?”
“On your call to Walter Hatchell at White Sands: He is still not available. Shall I try again in twenty minutes?”
“Please do.”
The operator’s face faded from the screen. Margaret nudged off the switch, resumed washing. The newsfilm group had shot several pictures of her working at the sink that morning. She wondered how she and her family would appear on the film. The reporter had called Rita a “budding entomologist” and had referred to David as “the blind piano prodigy—one of the few victims of the drum virus brought back from the uninhabitable Planet A-4.”
Rita came in from the yard. She was a lanky nine-year-old, a precocious extrovert with large blue eyes that looked on the world as her own private problem waiting to be solved.
“I am desperately ravenous,” she announced. “When do we eat?”
“When it’s ready,” Margaret said. She noted with a twinge of exasperation that Rita had acquired a torn cobweb on her blonde hair and a smudge of dirt across her left cheek.
Why should a little girl be fascinated by bugs? Margaret asked herself. It’s not natural. She said: “How’d you get the cobweb in your hair?”
“Oh, succotash!” Rita put a hand to her hair, rubbed away the offending web.
“How?” repeated Margaret.
“Mother! If one is to acquire knowledge of the insect world, one inevitably encounters such things! I am just dismayed that I tore the web.”
“Well, I’m dismayed that you’re filthy dirty. Go upstairs and wash so you’ll look presentable when we get the call through to your father.”
Rita turned away.
“And weigh yourself,” called Margaret. “I have to turn in our family’s weekly weight aggregate tomorrow.”
Rita skipped out of the room.
Margaret felt certain she had heard a muttered “parents!” The sound of the child’s footsteps diminished up the stairs. A door slammed on the second floor. Presently, Rita clattered back down the stairs. She ran into the kitchen. “Mother, you…”
“You haven’t had time to get clean.” Margaret spoke without turning.
“It’s David,” said Rita. “He looks peculiar and he says he doesn’t want any supper.”
Margaret turned from the sink, her features set to hide the gripping of fear. She knew from experience that Rita’s “peculiar” could be anything … literally anything.
“How do you mean peculiar, dear?”
“He’s so pale. He looks like he doesn’t have any blood.”
For some reason, this brought to Margaret’s mind a memory picture of David at the age of three—a still figure in a hospital bed, flesh-colored feeding tube protruding from his nose, and his skin as pale as death with his breathing so quiet it was difficult to detect the chest movements.
She dried her hands on a dishtowel. “Let’s go have a look. He’s probably just tired.”
David was stretched out on his bed, one arm thrown across his eyes. The shades were drawn and the room was in semi-darkness. It took a moment for Margaret’s eyes to adjust to the gloom, and she thought: Do the blind seek darkness because it gives them the advantage over those with sight? She crossed to the bedside. The boy was a small, dark-haired figure—his father’s colori
ng. The chin was narrow and the mouth a firm line like his grandfather Hatchell’s. Right now he looked thin and defenseless … and Rita was right: terribly pale.
Margaret adopted her best hospital manner, lifted David’s arm from his face, took his pulse.
“Don’t you feel well, Davey?” she asked.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” he said. “That’s a baby name.” His narrow features were set, sullen.
She took a short, quick breath. “Sorry. I forgot. Rita says you don’t want any supper.”
Rita came in from the hallway. “He looks positively infirm, mother.”
“Does she have to keep pestering me?” demanded David.
“I thought I heard the phone chime,” said Margaret. “Will you go check, Rita?”
“You’re being offensively obvious,” said Rita. “If you don’t want me in here, just say so.” She turned, walked slowly out of the room.
“Do you hurt someplace, David?” asked Margaret.
“I just feel tired,” he muttered. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”
Margaret stared down at him—caught as she had been so many times by his resemblance to his grandfather Hatchell. It was a resemblance made uncanny when the boy sat down at the piano: that same intense vibrancy … the same musical genius that had made Hatchell a name to fill concert halls. And she thought: Perhaps it’s because the Steinway belonged to his grandfather that he feels so badly about parting with it. The piano’s a symbol of the talent he inherited.
She patted her son’s hand, sat down beside him on the bed. “Is something troubling you, David?”
His features contorted, and he whirled away from her. “Go away!” He muttered, “Just leave me alone!”
Margaret sighed, felt inadequate. She wished desperately that Walter were not tied to the work at the launching site. She felt a deep need of her husband at this moment. Another sigh escaped her. She knew what she had to do. The rules for colonists were explicit: any symptoms at all—even superficial ones—were to get a doctor’s attention. She gave David’s hand a final pat, went downstairs to the hall phone, called Dr. Mowery, the medic cleared for colonists in the Seattle area. He said he’d be out in about an hour.
The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert Page 81