Harvey knelt beside her. “I’m right here.”
“Harvey,” she whispered. “Oh, Harvey.”
Igan joined them, lifted a pulmonometer-sphagnomometer from his bag. He pressed it against her neck, read the dial. “Where do you hurt?” he asked.
“Ohhhh,” she moaned.
“Please,” Harvey said, looking at Igan. “Please do something.”
“Stand out of the way,” Igan said.
Harvey stood up, backed off two steps. “What is it?” he whispered.
Igan ignored him, taped an enzymic vampire gauge to Lizbeth’s left wrist, read the dials.
“What’s wrong with her?” Harvey demanded.
Igan unclipped his instruments, restored them to his bag. “Nothing’s wrong with her.”
“But she’s—”
“She’s perfectly normal. Most of the others reacted the same way. It’s realignment of her enzymic demand system.”
“Isn’t there some—”
“Calm down!” Igan stood up, faced Harvey. “She barely needs any prescription material. Pretty soon, she can do without altogether. She’s in better health than you are. And she could walk into a pharmacy right now. The prescription flag wouldn’t even identify her.”
“Then why’s she … ?
“It’s the embryo. It compensates for her needs to protect itself. Does it automatically.”
“But she’s sick!”
“A bit of glandular maladjustment, nothing else.” Igan picked up his bag. “It’s all part of the ancient process. The embryo says produce this, produce that. She produces. Puts a certain strain on her system.”
“Can’t you do anything for her?”
“Of course I can. She’ll be extremely hungry in a little while. We’ll give her something to settle her stomach and then feed her. Provided they can produce some food in this hole.”
Lizbeth groaned, “Harvey?”
He knelt beside her, clasped her hands. “Yes, dear?”
“I feel terrible.”
“They’ll give you something in a few minutes.”
“Ohhhhh.”
Harvey turned a fierce scowl up at Igan.
“As soon as we can,” Igan said. “Don’t worry. This is normal.” He turned, ducked out into the other room.
“What’s wrong?” Lizbeth whispered.
“It’s the embryo,” Harvey said. “Didn’t you hear?”
“Yes. My head aches.”
Igan returned with a capsule and a cup of water, bent over Lizbeth. “Take this. It’ll settle your stomach.”
Harvey helped her sit up, held her while she swallowed the capsule.
She took a quavering breath, returned the cup. “I’m sorry to be such a—”
“Quite all right,” Igan said. He looked at Harvey. “Best bring her in the other room. Glisson will return in a few minutes. He should have food and a guide.”
Harvey helped his wife to her feet, supported her as they followed Igan into the other room. They found Svengaard sitting up staring at his bound hands.
“Have you been listening?” Igan asked.
Svengaard looked at Lizbeth. “Yes.”
“Have you thought about Seatac?”
“I’ve thought.”
“You’re not thinking of releasing him,” Harvey said.
“He slows us too much,” Igan said. “And we cannot release him.”
“Then perhaps I should do something about him,” Harvey said.
“What do you suggest, Durant?” Boumour asked.
“He’s a danger to us,” Harvey said.
“Ahh,” Boumour said. “Then we leave him to you.”
“Harvey!” Lizbeth said. She wondered if he’d suddenly gone mad. Was this his reaction to her request that they seek Svengaard as her doctor?
But Harvey was remembering Lizbeth’s moans. “If it’s him or my son,” he said, “the choice is easy.”
Lizbeth took his hand, signaled, “What’re you doing? You can’t mean this!”
“What is he, anyway?” Harvey asked, staring at Igan. And he signaled Lizbeth, “Wait. Watch.”
She read her husband then, pulled away.
“He’s a gene surgeon,” Harvey said. His voice dripped scorn. “He’s existed for them. Can he justify his existence? He’s a nonviable, nonliving nonentity. He has no future.”
“Is that your choice?” Boumour asked.
Svengaard looked up at Harvey. “Do you talk of murdering me?” he asked. The lack of emotion in his voice surprised Harvey.
“You don’t protest?” he asked.
Svengaard tried to swallow. His throat felt full of dry cotton. He looked at Harvey, measuring the bulk of the man, the corded muscles. He remembered the excessive male protectiveness in Harvey’s nature, the gene-error that made him a slave to Lizbeth’s slightest need.
“Why should I argue,” Svengaard asked, “when much of what he says is true and when he’s already made up his mind?”
“How will you do it, Durant?” Boumour asked.
“How would you like me to do it?” Harvey asked.
“Strangulation might be interesting,” Boumour said, and Harvey wondered if Svengaard, too, could hear the Cyborg clinical detachment in the man’s voice.
“A simple snap of the neck is quicker,” Igan said. “Or an injection. I could supply several from my kit.”
Harvey felt Lizbeth trembling against him. He patted her arm, disengaged himself.
“Harvey!” she said.
He shook his head, advanced on Svengaard.
Igan retreated to Boumour’s side, stood watching.
Harvey knelt behind Svengaard, closed his fingers around the surgeon’s throat, bent close to the ear opposite his audience. In a whisper audible only to Svengaard, Harvey said, “They would as soon see you dead. They don’t care one way or another. How do you feel about it?”
Svengaard felt the hands on his throat. He knew he could reach up with his bound hands and try to remove those clutching fingers, but he knew he’d fail. There was no doubting Harvey’s strength.
“Your own choice?” Harvey whispered.
“Do it, man!” Boumour called.
Only seconds ago, Svengaard realized, he’d been resigned to death, wanted death. Suddenly, that wish was the farthest thing from his desires.
“I want to live,” he husked.
“Is that your choice?” Harvey whispered.
“Yes!”
“Are you talking to him?” Boumour asked.
“Why do you want to live?” Harvey asked in a normal voice. He relaxed his fingers lightly, a subtle communication to Svengaard. Even an untrained person could read this.
“Because I’ve never been alive,” Svengaard said. “I want to try it.”
“But how can you justify your existence?” Harvey asked, and he allowed his fingers to tighten ever so slightly.
Svengaard looked at Lizbeth, sensing at last the direction of Harvey’s thoughts. He glanced at Boumour and Igan.
“You haven’t answered my question,” Boumour said. “What are you discussing with our prisoner?”
“Are they both Cyborgs?” Svengaard asked.
“Irretrievably,” Harvey said. “Without human feelings—or near enough to it that it makes no difference.”
“Then how can you trust them with you wife’s care?” Harvey’s fingers relaxed.
“That is a way I could justify my existence,” Svengaard said.
Harvey removed his hands from Svengaard’s throat, squeezed the man’s shoulders. It was instant communication, more than words, something that went from flesh to flesh. Svengaard knew he had an ally.
Boumour crossed to stand over them, demanded, “Are you going to kill him or aren’t you?”
“No one here’s going to kill him,” Harvey said.
“Then what’ve you been doing?”
“Solving a problem,” Harvey said. He kept a hand on Svengaard’s arm. Svengaard found he could understand Ha
rvey’s intent just by the pressure of that hand. It said, “Wait. Be still. Let me handle this.”
“And what is your intention now toward our prisoner?” Boumour demanded.
“I intend to free him and put my wife in his care,” Harvey said.
Boumour glared at him. “And if that incurs our displeasure?”
“What idiocy!” Igan blared. “How can you trust him when we’re available?”
“This is a fellow human,” Harvey said. “What he does for my wife will be out of humanity and not like a mechanic treating her as a machine for transporting an embryo.”
“This is nonsense!” Igan snapped. But he realized then that Harvey had recognized their Cyborg nature.
Boumour raised a hand to silence him as Igan started to continue talking. “You have not indicated how you will do this if we oppose it,” he said.
“You’re not full Cyborgs,” Harvey said. “I see in you fears and uncertainties. It’s new to you and you’re changing. I suspect you’re very vulnerable yet.”
Boumour backed off three steps, his eyes measuring Harvey. “And Glisson?” Boumour asked.
“Glisson wants only trustworthy allies,” Harvey said. “I’m giving him a trustworthy ally.”
“How do you know you can trust Svengaard?” Igan demanded.
“Because you have to ask, you betray your ineffectiveness,” Harvey said. He turned, began unfastening Svengaard’s fetters.
“It’s on your head,” Boumour said.
Harvey freed Svengaard’s hands, knelt and removed the bindings from his feet.
“I’m going for Glisson,” Igan said. He left the room.
Harvey stood up, faced Svengaard. “Do you know about my wife’s condition?” he asked.
“I heard Igan,” Svengaard said. “Every surgeon studies history and genetic origins. I have an academic knowledge of her condition.”
Boumour sniffed.
“There’s Igan’s medical kit,” Harvey said, pointing to the black case on the floor. “Tell me why my wife was sick.”
“You’re not satisfied with Igan’s explanation?” Boumour asked. He appeared outraged by the thought.
“He said it was natural,” Harvey said. “How can sickness be natural?”
“She has received medication,” Svengaard said. “Do you know what it was?”
“It had the same markings as the pill he gave her in the van,” Harvey said. “A tranquilizer he called it then.”
Svengaard approached Lizbeth, looked at her eyes, her skin. “Bring the kit,” he said, nodding to Harvey. He guided Lizbeth to an empty pad, finding himself fascinated by the idea of this examination. Once he had thought of this as disgusting; now, the idea that Lizbeth carried an embryo in her in the ancient way held only mystery for him, a profound curiosity.
Lizbeth sent a questioning look at Harvey as Svengaard eased her back onto the pad. Harvey nodded reassuringly. She tried to smile, but a strange fear had come over her. The fear didn’t originate with Svengaard. His hands were full of gentle assurance. But the prospect of being examined frightened her. She could feel terror warring with the drug Igan had given her.
Svengaard opened the kit, remembering the diagrams and explanations from the study tapes of his school years. They had been the subject of ribald jokes then, but even the jokes helped him now because they tended to fix vital facts in his mind.
Cling to the wall, for if you fall,
You then must learn to do the crawl!
In his memory, he could hear the chant and the uproarious burst of laughter.
Svengaard bent to his examination, excluding all else but the patient and himself. Blood pressure … enzymes … hormone production … bodily secretions …
Presently, he sat back, frowned.
“Is something wrong?” Harvey asked.
Boumour stood, arms folded, behind Harvey. “Yes, do tell us,” he said.
“Menstrual hormone complex is much too high,” Svengaard said. And he thought, “Cling to the wall …”
“The embryo controls these changes,” Boumour sneered.
“Yes,” Svengaard said. “But why this shift in hormone production?”
“From your superior knowledge, you’ll now tell us,” Boumour said.
Svengaard ignored the mocking tone, looked up at Boumour. “You’ve done this before. Have you had any spontaneous abortions in your patients?”
Boumour frowned.
“Well?” Svengaard said.
“A few.” He supplied the information grudgingly.
“I suspect the embryo isn’t firmly attached to the endometrium,” Svengaard said. “To the wall of the uterus,” he said, recognizing Harvey’s need for explanation. “The embryo must cling to the uterus wall. The way of this is prepared by hormones present during the menstrual cycle.”
Boumour shrugged. “Well, we expect to loose a certain percentage.”
“My wife is not a certain percentage,” Harvey growled. He turned, focused a glare on Boumour that sent the man retreating three steps.
“But these things happen,” Boumour said. He looked at Svengaard, who was preparing a slapshot ampule from Igan’s kit. “What’re you doing?”
“Giving her a little enzymic stimulation to produce the hormones she needs,” Svengaard said. He glanced at Harvey, seeing the man’s fears and need for reassurance. “It’s the best thing we can do now, Durant. It should work if her system hasn’t been too upset by all this.” He waved a hand indicating their flight, the emotional stress, the exertion.
“Do whatever you think you should,” Harvey said. “I know it’s your best.”
Svengaard administered the shot, patted Lizbeth’s arm. “Try to rest. Relax. Don’t move around unless it’s necessary.”
Lizbeth nodded. She had been reading Svengaard, seeing his genuine concern for her. His attempt to reassure Harvey had touched her, but there were fears she couldn’t suppress.
“Glisson,” she whispered.
Svengaard saw the direction of her thoughts, and said, “I won’t permit him to move you until I’m sure you’re all right. He and his guide will just have to wait.”
“You won’t permit!” Boumour sneered.
As though to punctuate his words, the ground around them rumbled and shook. Dust puffed through the low entrance and, like a magician’s trick, Glisson materialized there as the concealing dust settled.
At the first sign of disturbance, Harvey had dropped to the floor beside Lizbeth. He held her shoulders, shielded her with his body.
Svengaard still knelt beside the medical kit.
Boumour had whirled to stare at Glisson. “Sonics?” Boumour hissed.
“Not sonics,” Glisson said. The Cyborg’s usually flat voice carried a sing-song twang.
“He has no arms,” Harvey said.
They all noticed it then. From the shoulders down where Glisson’s arms had been now dangled only the empty linkages for Cyborg prosthetic attachments.
“They have sealed us in here,” Glisson said. Again, that sing-song twang as though something about him had been broken. “As you can see, I am disarmed. Do you not think that amusing? Do you see now why we could never fight them openly? When they wish it, they can destroy anything … anyone.”
“Igan?” Boumour whispered.
“Igans are easy to destroy,” Glisson said. “I have seen it. Accept the fact.”
“But what’ll we do?” Harvey demanded.
“Do?” Glisson looked down at him. “We will wait.”
“One of you could stand off an entire Security force to get Potter away,” Boumour said. “But all you can do now is wait?”
“Violence is not my function,” Glisson said. “You will see.”
“What’ll they do?” Lizbeth hissed.
“Whatever they wish to do,” Glisson said.
18
“There, it is done,” Calapine said.
She looked at Schruille and Nourse in the reflectors.
Schrui
lle indicated the kinesthetic analogue relays of the Survey Globe’s inner wall. “Did you observe Svengaard’s emotion?”
“He was properly horrified,” Calapine said.
Schruille pursed his lips, studied her reflection. A session with the pharmacy had restored her composure, but she occupied her throne in a subdued mood. The kaleidoscopic play of lights from the wall gave an unhealthy cast to her skin. There was a definite flush to her features.
Nourse glanced up at the observer lights—the span of arctic wall glowed with a dull red intensity, every position occupied. With hardly an exception, the Optiman community watched developments.
“We have a decision to make,” Nourse said.
“You look pale, Nourse,” Calapine said. “Did you have pharmacy trouble?”
“No more than you.” He spoke defensively. “A simple enzymic heterodyning. It’s pretty well damped out.”
“I say bring them here now,” Schruille said.
“To what purpose?” Nourse asked. “We have the pattern of their flight very well fixed. Why let them escape again?”
“I don’t like the thought of unregistered self-viables—who knows how many—running loose out there,” Schruille said.
“Are you sure we could take them alive?” Calapine asked.
“The Cyborg admits ineffectiveness against us,” Schruille said.
“Unless that’s a trick,” Nourse said.
“I don’t think so,” Calapine said. “And once we have them here we can extract the information we need from their raw brains with the utmost precision.”
Nouse turned, stared at her. He couldn’t understand what had happened to Calapine. She spoke with the callous brutality of a Folk woman. She was like an awakened ghoul, as though violence were her rising bell.
What is her setting bell? he wondered. And he was shocked at his own thought.
“If they have means of destroying themselves?” Nourse asked. “I remind you of the computer nurse and a sad number of our own surgeons who appear to be in league with these criminals. We were powerless to prevent their self-destruction.”
“How callous you are, Nourse,” Calapine said.
“Callous? I?” He shook his head. “I merely wish to prevent further pain. Let us destroy them ourselves and go on from here.”