Healer lf-3 Page 7

  There was that word again. He wondered when he would end. Or if he would end. Would the moment ever come when he'd want to stop living? And would he be allowed to do so? Pard's earlier statement had made him uneasy. They shared a body and thus an existence, as the result of an accident. What if one partner decided he wanted out? It would never be Pard—his intellectual appetite was insatiable. No, if anyone would ever want to call it quits, it would be Dalt. And Pard would forbid it. Such a situation appeared ludicrous on the surface but might very well come to be, millennia hence. How would they resolve it? Would Pard find a way to grant Dalt's wish by somehow strangling his mind, thereby granting his death wish—for in Pard's philosophy, the mind is life and life is the mind—and leaving Pard as sole tenant of the body?

  Dalt shuddered. Pard's ethics would, of course, prevent him from doing such a thing unless Dalt absolutely demanded it. But still it was hardly a comforting thought. Even in the dark fog of depression that enveloped him tonight, Dalt realized that he loved life and living very much. Planning to make the most of tomorrow and every subsequent tomorrow, he drifted off to sleep as the second of Tolive's three moons bobbed above the horizon.

  VI

  A somewhat harried Steven Dalt managed to arrive at the administrative offices of IMC in time for his 09.5 appointment with Dr. Webst. His back ached as he took a seat in the waiting room, and he realized he was hungry.

  A bad morning so far—if this was any indication of how the rest of the day was going to be, he decided he'd be better off returning to the hotel, crawling into bed, and spending it in the fetal position. He'd awakened late and cramped in that corner by the window, with his baggage sitting inside the door. He'd had to rummage through it to find a presentable outfit and then rush down to the lobby and find a taxi to take him to the IMC administration building. He did not want to keep Dr. Webst waiting. Dalt seemed to be placing greater and greater importance on punctuality lately. Perhaps, he mused, the more aware he became of his own timelessness, the more conscious he became of the value of another man's time.

  ("Well, what'll it be?") Pard asked suddenly.

  Welcome back.

  ("I should be saying that to you. Once again: What'll it be?")

  What are you talking about?

  ("Us. Are we sticking with the microbes or do we go into gerontology or what?")

  I'm not sure. Maybe we won't stay here at all. They hired us for antimicrobial research and may not want us for anything else. But I think I've had enough of microbes for now.

  ("I must agree. But what shall we try next?")

  I haven't given it too much thought yet—

  ("Well, get thinking. We'll be seeing Dr. Webst in a moment and we'd better have something to tell him.")

  Why don't we just improvise?

  Pard seemed to hesitate, then, ("Okay, but let's be as honest as possible with him, 'cause we start getting paid as of this morning.")

  So, a few credits won't break IMC.

  ("It would be unethical to accept payment for nothing.")

  Your rigidity wears on me after a while, Pard. ("Value received for value given—don't forget it.") Okay, okay, okay.

  The door to Dr. Webst's office dilated and a tall, fair young man with an aquiline profile stepped through. He glanced at Dalt, who was the room's only occupant, paused, then walked over and extended his hand. "Dr. Dalt?"

  "The 'Dalt' part is correct, but I have no doctorate." Actually, this was untrue; he held two doctorates in separate fields but both had been granted a number of lives ago.

  "Mister Dalt, then. I'm Dr. Webst." They performed the ancient human ritual known as the handshake and Dalt liked Webst's firm grip.

  "I thought you'd be older, Doctor," Dalt said as they entered Webst's sparsely appointed office.

  Webst smiled. "That's funny ... I was expecting an older man, too. That paper you published a year ago on Dasein II fever and the multiple pathogens-involved was a brilliant piece of work; there was an aura of age and experience about it."

  "Are you in infectious diseases?" Dalt asked quickly, anxious to change the subject.

  "No, psych is my field."

  "Really? I made part of the trip from Derby in the company of Ellen Lettre. Know her?"

  "Of course. Our department has high hopes for Dr. Lettre—an extremely intelligent woman." He paused at his desk and flashed a rapid series of memos across his viewer. "Before I forget, I got a note from personnel about your forms. Most of them are incomplete and they'd like to see you sometime today."

  Dalt nodded. "Okay, I'll see if I can make it this afternoon." This was often a problem—personal history. He had changed his name a couple of times but preferred to be known as Steven Dalt. Usually he went from one field of endeavor to another totally unrelated to the first and thus obviated the need for references; he would start at the bottom as he had at the university on Derby, and with Pard as his partner, it wouldn't be long before the higher-ups realized they had a boy genius among them. Or, he'd go into a risky field such as chispen fishing on Gelc, where the only requirement for employment was the guts to go out on the nets ... and no questions asked.

  As for the IMC personnel department—he had paid a records official on Derby a handsome bribe to rig some documents to make him appear to be a native of the planet. He'd been purposely vague and careless with the IMC applications in order to stall off any inquiries until all was ready. All he could do now was hope.

  "Question," Dalt said. Webst looked up. "Why a psychiatrist to meet me rather than someone from the microbiology department?"

  "Protocol, I guess. Dr. Hyne is head of the micro department but he's on vacation. It's customary to have an important new man—and you fall into that category— welcomed by a departmental head. And I'm head of psych."

  "I see," Dalt nodded. "But when do I—" Webst's phone buzzed. "Yes?" The word activated the screen and a technician's face appeared. "Private message, Doctor."

  Webst picked up the earpiece and swung the screen face away from Dalt. "Go ahead." He listened, nodded, said, "I'll be right over," and hung up.

  "Have you had breakfast yet?" he asked Dalt, whose headshake left little doubt about the current state of his stomach. "Okay, why don't you make yourself at home at the table behind you and punch in an order. I've got to go check out some equipment—should only take me a few minutes. Relax and enjoy the meal; we have an excellent commissary and the local hens lay delicious eggs." He gave a short wave and was gone.

  ("May the god of empty stomachs bless and keep him!") Pard remarked as Dalt punched in an order. ("No dinner last night and no breakfast this morning— very careless.")

  Dalt waited hungrily. Couldn't be helped.

  ("I like Webst,") Pard said as a steaming tray popped out of a slot in the wall. ("He seems rather unpretentious and it would be easy for a young man in such a high position to be otherwise.")

  I didn't notice either way. Dalt began to eat with gusto.

  ("That's the nice part—he doesn't make a show of his unpretentiousness. It seemed very natural for him to personally bring yon in from the waiting room, didn't it? But think: Most departmental heads would prefer to have the receptionist open the door and let you come to them. This man made an effort to make you feel at home.")

  Maybe he just hasn't been a head long enough and doesn't know how to act like one.

  ("I have a feeling, Steve, that Dr. Webst is at the top of his field and knows it and can act any way he damn well pleases.")

  Webst returned then, appearing preoccupied. He went directly to his desk, seated himself, and stared at Dalt for a long moment with a puzzled expression playing over his face.

  "What's the matter?" Dalt asked, finally.

  "Hmmm?" He shook himself. "Oh, nothing. A technical problem ... I think." He paused. "Tell you what: Everybody over in microbiology is rather tied up today—why don't you come with me over to psychiatry and I'll show you around. I know you're anxious to get to see micro—"

 
("Not really,") Pard interjected.

  "—but at least this way you can start to get a feel for IMC."

  Dalt shrugged. "Fine with me. Lead the way." Webst seemed very pleased with Dalt's acquiescence and ushered him out a rear door to a small carport ("He's lying to us, Steve.")

  I had that feeling, too. You think we're in trouble?

  ("I doubt it. He's such a terrible liar, it's unlikely that he's had much practice at it. He just wants to get us over to the psych department, so let's play along and see what he has in mind. This just may lead to a chance to get out of microbes and into another field. Can you dredge up any interest in mental illness?")

  Not a particularly overwhelming amount.

  ("Well, start asking questions anyway. Show a little interest!")

  Yessir!

  "—nice weather, so I think we'll take the scenic tour," Webst was saying. "When it rains, which isn't that often, we have a tunnel system you can use. A dome was planned initially but the weather proved to be so uniform that no one could justify the expense."

  The small ground car glided out over the path and the combination of warm sunlight, a cool breeze through the open cab, and a full belly threatened to put Dalt to sleep. At a leisurely pace they passed formations of low buildings, clean and graceful, with intricate gardens scattered among them.

  ("Questions, Steve,") Pard prompted.

  Right. "Tell me, Doctor—if I may be so bold—what sort of astronomical sum did IMC have to pay for such a huge tract of land so close to the center of town?"

  Webst smiled. "You forget that IMC was here before you and I were born—"

  ("Speak for yourself, sir.")

  "—and the town was only a village at the time Central was started. Spoonerville, in fact, grew up around IMC."

  "Well, it's beautiful, I must say."

  "Thank you. We're proud of it."

  Dalt drank in a passing garden, then asked, "What's going on in psychiatry these days? I thought mental illness was virtually a thing of the past You have the enzymes and—"

  "The enzymes only control schizophrenia—much the same as insulin controlled diabetics before beta-cell grafts. There's no cure as yet and I don't foresee one for quite some time." His voice lapsed unconsciously into a lecture tone. "Everyone thought a cure was imminent when Schimmelpenninck isolated the enzyme-substrate chains in the limbic system of the brain. But that was only the beginning. Different types and degrees of schizophrenia occur with breaks at different loci along the chains but environmental history appears to be equally important."

  Webst paused as the car rounded a corner and had to wait for an automatic gate to slide open. Then they were in an octagonal courtyard with people scattered here and there, in groups or alone, talking or soaking up the sun.

  "These are our ambulatory patients," he replied to Dalt's questioning glance. "We give them as much freedom as possible, but we also try to keep them from wandering off. They're all harmless and they're all here voluntarily." He cleared his throat. "But where was I? ... Oh, yes. So it all boils down to a delicate balance between chemistry, intellect, and environment. If the individual has learned how to handle stress, he can often minimize the psychotic effects of a major break in the enzyme chains. If he hasn't, however, even a minor break at the terminus of a chain can throw his mind off the deep end."

  He gave a short laugh. "But we still really don't know what we're talking about when we say mind. We can improve its function and grasp of reality with our drugs and teaching techniques, but it remains a construct that defies quantitative analysis."

  He guided the vehicle into a slot next to a large blue building and stepped out. "And then, of course, there are the chemonegative psychotics—all their enzyme chains seem to be intact but they are completely divorced from reality. Victims of the so-called 'horrors.' They're the ones we're working on here in Big Blue, where we keep our intractable patients," Webst said as he passed his hand over a plate set in the doorframe. Silently, the first of the double doors slid open and waited for them to enter, and it was not until the first was completely secure in its closed position that the second began to move.

  "Are they dangerous in here?" Dalt asked uneasily.

  "Only to themselves. These patients are totally cut off from reality and anything could happen to them if they got loose."

  "But what's wrong with them? I saw a man go into one of these fits on the orbit station."

  Webst twisted his mouth to the side. "Unfortunately, these aren't 'fits' that come and go. The victim gets hit with whatever it is that hits him, screams hysterically, and spends the rest of his life—at least we assume so, although the first recorded case was only ten years ago—cut off from the rest of the world. Cases are popping up on every planet in the Federation. It's even rumored that the Tarks are having problems with it. We need a breakthrough."

  Webst paused, then said, "Let's look in here." He opened a door marked 12 and allowed Dalt to precede him into the room. It was a nicely appointed affair with a bed, two chairs, and indirect lighting. And it was empty, or at least Dalt thought it was until Webst directed his attention to a corner behind one of the chairs. A young girl of no more than eighteen years crouched there in a shivering state of abject terror.

  "First name, Sally," Webst intoned. "We dubbed her that. Last name: Ragna—that's the planet on which she was found. A typical 'horrors' case: We've had her for one and a half standard years and we haven't been able to put even a chink into that wall of terror."

  Webst went to a plate in the wall by the door and waved his hand across it. "This is Dr. Webst. I'm in room twelve with Mr. Dalt."

  "Thank you, Doctor," said a male voice. "Would you mind stepping down the hall a minute?"

  "Not at all," he replied, and turned to Dalt. "Why don't you stay here and try to talk to Sally while I see what they want. She's perfectly harmless, wouldn't— couldn't—hurt anyone or anything, and that's the crux of her problem. We've normalized her enzymes and have tried every psychotropic agent known to break her shell, with no results. We've even gone so far as to reinstitute the ancient methods of electroconvulsive therapy and insulin shock." He sighed. "Nothing. So try to talk to her and see what we're up against."

  With Webst gone, Dalt turned his attention to the girl.

  ("Pitiful, isn't it?") Pard said.

  Dalt did not reply. He was staring at a girl who must have been attractive once; her face now wore a ravaged, hunted expression that had caused seemingly permanent furrows in her skin; her eyes, when not squeezed shut, were opened wide and darting in all directions. Her arms were clasped around her knees, which were drawn up to her chest, and her hands gripped each other with white-knuckled intensity.

  This could be very interesting, Dalt told Pard at last.

  ("It certainly could. I think it could also be interesting to know what Dr. Webst is up to. He was obviously stalling for time when he left us here.")

  Maybe he wants us for his department.

  ("Highly unlikely. To the best of his knowledge, we are eminently unqualified in this field.")

  "Hello, Sally," Dalt said.

  No reaction.

  "Do you hear me, Sally?" No reaction.

  He waved his hand before her eyes. No reaction.

  He clapped his hands loudly and without warning by her left ear. No reaction.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her gently but firmly.

  No reaction. Not an extra blink, not a change in expression, not a sound, not the slightest hint of voluntary movement.

  Dalt rose to his feet and turned to find Dr. Webst standing in the doorway staring at him.

  "Something wrong, Doctor?" Again, he wore the preoccupied, puzzled expression that did not seem to be at home on his face.

  "I don't think so," he replied slowly. "Something may be very right, as a matter of fact. But I'll have to look into it a little more." He looked frustrated. "Would you mind going over to personnel for now and straightening out your papers while
I try to straighten out a few things over here? I know what you're thinking ... but IMC is really much better organized than I've demonstrated it to be. It's just that we've had some strange occurrences this morning that I'll explain to you later. For the moment, however, I'm going to be tied up."

  Dalt had no desire to talk to the personnel department. On an impulse, he asked, "Is Ellen around?"

  Webst brightened immediately. "Dr. Lettre? Yes, she's in the next building." He guided Dalt back to the entrance and pointed to a red building on the other side of the garden, perhaps twenty meters away. "Her office is right inside the far door. I'm sure she'll be glad to show you around her section, and I'll contact you there later." He passed his hand over the doorplate and the inner door began to move.

  ("Nice security system,") Pard said as they strolled past the lolling patients. ("The intercoms and the door-locks are all cued to the palms of authorized personnel. Patients stay where you put them.")

  Unless of course someone gets violent and decides that the quickest way to freedom is to cut off someone's authorized hand and waltz right out of the complex.

  ("Your sense of humor eludes me at times ... but let's get to more-pressing matters.")

  Such as?

  ("Such as Webst At first he lied to get us over to the psychiatry units; now he seems anxious to get rid of us and made up some lame excuses to do so. I'd very much like to know what he's up to.")

  Maybe he's just inefficient and disorganized.

  ("I assure you, Steve, that man is anything but inefficient. He's obviously puzzled by something and we seem to be implicated.")