"Geo-Nostalgic Psychosis?" said Niebohr.
"Koninburger would have died if he hadn't been returned to Earth within twenty-four hours. Hurwitz knew that from his Corps experience," said Fong. "Most cases are fortunately less acute, but even so, the condition accounts for almost twenty-five percent of medical discharges from the Corps. But you must be familiar with those facts. It happens among colonists as well"
Niebohr nodded. "Solar had an epidemic a couple of years ago, out on Deneb. They shipped over two hundred people back to Earth, and a third of them didn't make it. We've been lucky—just the odd case here and there, and usually in the less acute form."
"Under the circumstances you can understand why Koninburger was less than willing to take part in the Tarasco IV operation," said Fong. "Even though his one and only direct experience of the disease was over forty years ago, he was unwilling even to submit to tests aimed at discovering whether there had been any remission."
"You mean he may have grown out of it?"
"Such cases have been known," said Fong. "At least, it would have been worthwhile to try and find out."
Niebohr leaned his bulky body forward in the chair and stared-intently into the egg-smooth face of Fong. "Mr. President, why are you telling me all this?" he asked.
Fong smiled blandly. "My dear Elkan, in order to make sure that you do not find yourself saddled with the responsibility for the death of one of our most eminent scientists—why else?"
"You're sure there's no other reason?"
The President's smile broadened. "Let me put it this way. As far as relationships between Koninburger and Carter—or any other Corps officer, for that matter— are concerned, the situation has gone too far for retrieval. Obviously he has a valuable contribution to make to the development of a Warp Drive, but he is completely incapable of cooperating with our people. If, on the other hand, he were running "his own establishment, with a completely free hand—"
"But you yourself have just explained precisely why he can't do that," said Niebohr. "A prototype cannot be built here on Earth if your figures are correct— and I for one don't intend to rely on the chance that they aren't—and Koninburger cannot leave Earth because of his latent Geo-Nostalgic Psychosis."
"Elkan, my presentation speech this evening may have contained a number of rather fulsome compliments, as is the custom on such occasions, but it was in the main a sincere tribute to your ingenuity and persistence, for which I have a great deal of respect. This being so, I have not the slightest doubt that you will eventually think of a way to overcome this small obstacle. Indeed, you will deserve all the praise grateful humanity can shower upon you, if you succeed where world government fails." The President rose to his feet. "But I have monopolized your attention quite long enough. Everyone will be wondering what has happened to the guest of honor. Shall we go down?"
Chapter Seven
A woman is more responsive to a man's forgetfulness than to his attentions.
JANIN
The first glow of dawn was beginning to show in the East as Tom Bruce veered out of his traffic lane and headed the flycar in toward Corps Base Mel-pond. He was feeling more than a little depressed and aware that he had drunk rather too much whiskey. He had never been particularly fond of socializing, and this evening had ended up by being even more boring than most. He had started off in reasonably good spirits, feeling comfortably superior to the chattering, useless crowd of party-goers, but after several drinks his thoughts had begun to turn inward in a kind of self-examination that was unusual for him.
Alone in the bustling, glittering throng, he had begun to wonder if his own life was after all quite as meaningful or worthwhile as he had always assumed. Bob Prince's remark about the drying, shriveling effect of Corps life on women had probably been the initial stimulus that had started him on the track, but he had found himself speculating if some similar kind of process might take place in men as well. Devotion to duty carried certain satisfactions, but there were times when a man needed something more—some more personal reassurance of his humanity, perhaps.
He had little doubt that meeting Prince again was responsible for this trend of thought. The man's confidence and obvious happiness had forced Bruce to revise his original opinion that Prince had somehow sold out by resigning his commission and moving over to the commercial sector. If Prince had sold out, he had evidently made a good deal, finding a warmth and stability that the Corps could never provide, despite all the brave talk about esprit de corps. And Elsa. . . The memory of those dark, intense features and that sleekly desirable body kindled a surge of envy. There was a woman who knew how to keep a man happy—even if she was making a fool of him at the same time.
He frowned as he made a clumsy landing and began to trundle the car towards his parking space. Would he settle for what Bob Prince had, or something like it? If so, the opportunity was there: a good, well-paid job, with a comfortable home here on Earth, instead of wasting months on end patrolling the infinities of space—months during which he, as captain, was always on parade, compelled by the needs of discipline to live in an atmosphere of godlike aloofness. He had only to say the word to Prince and the door would be opened to a new, affluent life, a life in which he would no longer be a symbol of authority but a normal human being.
A hint of the old guilt began to creep back as he got out of the flycar, but he slammed the door angrily, thrusting it from him. He had given nearly twenty years of his life to the Corps. Surely that was enough. No one could say that he had not fulfilled his obligations. Now? A fresh beginning—a new, more meaningful existence, with time for human feeling and emotion.. .time to enjoy himself...
Alone? The question formed itself as he walked across the concrete toward the entrance of the Officers' Quarters, and the answer flashed into his mind with an immediacy that was a clear implication of its truth. What was it Prince had said? 'You could have your cake and eat it—Helen too'
Yes. . .that was what he wanted. But if the step was to be taken they had to take it together, the two of them—then it would have some real meaning. Filled with the immediacy and truth of his new decision, he quickened his pace. This was something that had to be talked about and settled now. There could be no sense in waiting until tomorrow, when they would both be immersed again in rigid, official routine.
He paused for a moment outside the door of her quarters before knocking. He had seen her leave the reception somewhere around one A.M. escorted by Junius Carter. What if she was not alone? Not with Carter—the old man was too devoted to his Velma to get involved in that kind of thing—but with someone else. . . Some other Corps officer who needed to—what was Prince's phrase?—relieve the ache of the old hormones.
He knocked abruptly. The sound, much louder than he had intended, rattled enormously along the bare, aseptic corridor.
"Tom! Kind of late for calling, isn't it?" She stood in the half-open doorway, honey-blonde hair hanging loose to her shoulders, statuesque body draped in a pale-blue, semi-transparent wrapper.
"Did I wake you?"
'Well no—as a matter of fact I was reading. I had a showier when I got home and it seemed to wake me up." She stood to one side as he entered the room and closed the door behind him.
The bare, official room was relieved by subtle hints of her femininity, and the familiar spicy tang of her body perfume caught at his throat, kindling such a flood of tenderness that for a moment he could do nothing but stand and look at her in silence.
"Tom—what is the matter with you?" She moved a couple of steps towards him, then stopped. "God! You smell as if you'd been marinated in ten-year-old scotch for a week. Are you drunk?"
"A little. . ." he admitted. "Maybe just enough."
"Enough for what?" Her deep-blue eyes were wary now.
"To give me the courage to admit that I may have been wrong about certain things," he said. "You and me, for instance. We both know that neither of us is any good to anyone else, however much we—"
"S
o that's it!" Her voice cut in on him, stopping him dead, and he stared open-mouthed into her suddenly hardened, ice-queen features. "You slob! You drunken bum!"
He recoiled before her fury, mumbling, confused, and suddenly aware that he really was drunk.
"You picked the wrong place and the wrong time, Tom." Her voice was flat and crushingly scornful. "If you want to find somebody to ride the hard-on you've been nursing ever since you clapped eyes on that goddammed parakeet Elsa Niebohr, you'd better go along to that twenty-credit cathouse down the road from the enlisted men's quarters. Now get out!"
She flung the door of the room open again and he left without a word. Her speech had said it all, making him realize fully for the first time just what he had done to her that night when, so smug in his conceptions of duty and discipline, he had told her that their relationship must end. The words didn't matter; they were just the outward manifestation—lost, ephemeral sounds. What did matter was the hardening scar tissue deep in her mind that must have been eating into and drying her womanhood ever since that nighty so that now it was too late—too late for both of them. She would never fully trust herself to another man—and he. . .he would never forgive himself for what he had done to her in the sacred name of the Corps.
"Bugger the Corps!" he snarled, slamming the door of his quarters behind him. He walked unsteadily across to the cocktail cabinet and began to peel the foil from the stopper of a fresh bottle of Ballantine's....
Chapter Eight
If the rich could hire other people to die for them, the poor would make a wonderful living.
YIDDISH PROVERB
Doctor Anderson Fane was dark and catlike. He sat in the chair behind his large dark oak desk in a manner so utterly relaxed that several times Niebohr had the disturbing impression that he was actually asleep. This impression did nothing to improve his temper. He was accustomed to having people pay attention when he talked, and when he paid them the kind of money Fane demanded for a consultation, he felt entitled to at least a display of interest Finishing his carefully prepared explanation, Niebohr found himself grasping the arms of his chair and glaring at the near-somnolent psychiatrist. As the silence in the immaculately insulated consulting room lengthened, his rage began to grow like steam pressure mounting inside a grossly overheated boiler. Any moment now it would demand the release of telling this handsome, expensively dressed charlatan a few home truths about his behavior.
The imminent explosion was averted as Fane's eyes opened wider. Here again, they were in keeping with the catlike image, being of a strangely luminous greeny-gold. The smile, displaying a set of very white teeth that held a suggestion of carnivorous sharpness, was evidently more in the nature of a formal preliminary to speech than any expression of humor.
"What you're really asking me, Mr. Niebohr, is whether there is any extrasensory perception element involved in Geo-Nostalgia."
"I wasn't aware of asking any such question," growled Niebohr. "All I want to know is if it would be feasible, by the careful control of his environment down to the smallest detail, so much so that he would have to accept the evidence of all his normal senses that he was on Earth, to prevent such a patient from having an attack of the disease."
"Precisely." Fane stroked the air with one languid, long-fingered hand. "The evidence of all his normal senses. Speaking of a hypothetical case, I'm afraid it is impossible to be categorical. When you speak of normal senses I take it that you are speaking of sight, hearing, touch, smell and taste."
"Naturally."
Fane moved his head from side to side in a gesture of maddening superiority which conveyed his tolerant pity for the limitations of the lay mind. "My dear Mr. Niebohr, if this conversation were to have taken place, say, fifty years ago, I would probably have been able to give you a categorical answer. Unless I was possessed of certain extremely avant garde ideas, I would surely have said to you that, provided the environment were meticulously controlled in the manner you suggest, the patient would be unlikely to succumb to the disease. However, the work of Friedhofer and Blount has opened up new areas of uncertainty so vast that today he would be a fool who presumed to make generalizations about the limits or the functions of the human mind. Not to bore you with too much detail, let me merely point out that according to Blount there is experimental evidence to indicate the existence of at least four senses other than those which are traditionally regarded as normal in human beings. It is very rarely that all of these are found in the same person, but should even one of them be present in the case you are speaking of, the results could be disastrous."
"Supposing the person concerned were in fact to be limited to the old-fashioned five senses," said Niebohr.
Fane shrugged. "In that case it would be an interesting experiment—if a dangerous one. The slightest hint of strangeness—a word, a gesture on the part of any person in contact with the patient—might set off a train of reaction and bring on an attack."
"But there would be a chance of success?"
"That depends on a large number of factors," Fane said. "Not the least of which would be the period of time involved. Hie entire thing would be on a constant knife-edge, and such an equilibrium cannot be maintained indefinitely. The operation would have to be supervised and planned down to the smallest detail—constant surveillance and feedback techniques would have to be developed..."
Neibohr felt a flush of triumph that did something to restore both his temper and his battered ego, as he realized that he had the psychiatrist really interested at last It was always the same with these experts—feed their vanity and let them walk over you for a while, and they fell into your lap like ripe plums.
". . .all the other people in the environment. Possibly some kind of hypnotic technique might be used in their preparation. Budweiser mentions in his paper on the training of—"
"Doctor Fane," interrupted Niebohr. "Would you be prepared to accept the post of consultant on such a project? A year's contract, initially, with an option on either side of renewal for a further period of six months."
Fane's smooth forehead creased in an uncharacteristic frown. "Mr. Niebohr, I have my practice to think of—my patients depend on me..."
Niebohr was in an area he understood now. In the matter of buying and selling people he was the expert. He glanced around the well-equipped consulting room appraisingly. "What do you make in a year, Fane? A hundred thousand—maybe a hundred and fifty? I'll pay you a million, guaranteed, whether the project is successful or not. With that kind of money you can afford to pay a locum."
Fane was sitting forward in his chair now, the languor entirely gone from his posture. "I'm not sure that the undertaking is ethical. There would be considerable danger to the patient—"
Niebohr rose to his feet, towering over the man behind the desk. "And a million bonus on successful completion," he said. "Think about it, and call me before six o'clock this evening." He turned abruptly and walked out of the consulting room, his face a mask and his mind filled with the satisfaction of another deal. Nothing would stop him.
Tom Bruce opened gummy eyelids to find himself staring up into a familiar, grinning face.
"'Morning, Captain," said C.P.O. Dockridge, holding out a bubbling glass of clear liquid. "Try this."
Painfully aware of the thundering inside his head, Bruce raised himself on one elbow and downed the glass of seltzer. The liquid met head on with the juices of his roiling stomach and exploded in a resounding burp.
"Boy, you must really have tied one on last night," said Dockridge, shaking his head in sympathy. "I got the picture when I saw the bottle and the way your things were strewn around, so I thought I'd leave you lie awhile."
"Lie? What time is it?" Bruce jerked upright. The sudden movement did nothing to improve the condition of his head.
"Half after eleven," said Dockridge.
"Hell!" barked Bruce. "I had a meeting of officers scheduled for ten A.M. YOU knew that; why didn't you wake me?"
"Not to worry, Ca
ptain. Commander Lindstrom said she'd handle it She was around at the crack of dawn, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and she's been down at the yard since seven-thirty chasing the hell out of everybody." Dockridge grinned confidentially. "If you ask my opinion, this earthbound life doesn't suit any of us. The sooner we get out into space and into the old routine, the better."
"Nobody asked your goddammed opinion, Docl" snapped Bruce, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and realizing for the first time that he was still wearing his vest and shorts. "And this morning I can really live without your two-bit philosophizing, understood?"
"Yes sir" said Dockridge, still hovering. "Can I get you some breakfast, maybe?"
"Out!" barked Bruce.
Doc shrugged his shoulders and left, his prosthetic leg dragging slightly.
Some twenty minutes later, shaved and showered, Bruce returned to the bedroom feeling slightly more human and began to dress. He was just zipping the front of his jacket when he heard the vid in the lounge chime. He walked through and punched the ON button.
"Hallo there!" said the smiling image of Robert Prince.
" 'Morning," said Bruce.
"You're looking a bit finely drawn," Prince said.
"So my batman just informed me," Bruce said. "I'll live."
"Glad to hear that. I called about next weekend. Will you be able to make it?
"Well, sure, I'd like to very much."
"And the lady?"
"Huh?"
"Helen Lindstrom—you'll be bringing her along?"
"I.. .I think not."
"Pity. . ." Prince said. "But there'll be a couple of other interesting females along, so you should find it interesting. You know Veronica Marsden?"
"Know is hardly the word—I've seen her several hundred times on TV, of course."
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