“Good,” said Friedlander Bey. He let his eyes close.
“There are two more matters, O Shaykh,” I said hesitantly.
He looked at me again. His expression was agonized. “I am sorry, my nephew. I do not feel well. Even before the fire, I was suffering from some illness. The pain in my head and belly has grown worse.”
“Have the doctors here explained it?”
“No, they are fools. They tell me they can find nothing wrong. There are always more tests they wish to run. I am plagued by incompetence and tortured with indignity.”
“You must put yourself in their hands, my uncle,” I said. “I was treated very well in this hospital.”
“Yes, but you were not a frail old man, clinging hopelessly to life. Every one of their barbarous procedures robs me of another year of life.”
I smiled. “It’s not as bad as that, O Shaykh. Let them discover the cause of your ailment and cure it, and then soon you will be as strong as ever.”
Papa waved a hand impatiently, indicating that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “What are these other worries you will inflict on me?”
I had to approach both of them correctly. They were very sensitive matters. “The first concerns my servant, Kmuzu,” I said. “Even as I rescued you from the fire, Kmuzu rescued me. I promised him that I would ask you to reward him.”
“Why, of course, my son. He surely has earned a good reward.”
“I thought you might give him his freedom.”
Papa looked at me in silence, his expression empty. “No,” he said slowly, “it is not yet time. I will consider the circumstances, and decide on some other appropriate compensation.”
“But—” He stopped me with a single gesture. Even weakened as he was, the force of his personality would not permit me to press him further when he’d already made up his mind. “Yes, O Shaykh,” I said humbly. “The second matter concerns the widow and children of Jirji Shaknahyi, the police officer who was my partner. They are in desperate financial straits, and I wish to do more than merely offer them cash. I seek your permission to move them into our house, perhaps for only a little while.” Papa’s expression told me that he did not want to talk any longer. “You are my darling,” he said weakly. “Your decisions are my decisions. It is good.”
I bowed to him. “I will leave you to rest now. May Allah grant you peace and well-being.” “I will miss your presence, O my son.” I got up from my chair and glanced into the other room. Youssef and Tariq appeared to be engrossed in their card game, but I was sure they’d noted every word that had passed between Papa and me. As I headed for the door, Friedlander Bey began to snore. I tried to make no noise as I left the suite.
I went down in the elevator to my room, and climbed back into bed. I was glad to see that the liver lunch had been taken away. I’d just turned on the holoset again when Dr. Yeniknani came in to visit me. Dr. Yeniknani had assisted the neurosurgeon who’d amped my skull. He was a dark, fierce-looking Turk who was actually a student of Sufi mysticism. I’d gotten to know him pretty well during my last stay here, and I was glad to see him again. I looked up at the holoset and said “Off.”
“How are you feeling, Mr. Audran?” said Dr. Yeniknani. He came up next to my bed and smiled down at me. His strong teeth looked very white against his swarthy skin and his big, black mustache. “May I sit down?”
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” I said. “So, are you here to tell me that the fire baked my brain, or is this just a friendly call?”
“Your reputation suggests that you don’t have much brain left to bake,” he said. “No, I just wanted to see how you were feeling, and if there’s anything I can do for you.”
“I’m grateful. No, I don’t think I need anything. I’d just like to get out of here already.”
“Everyone says that. You’d think we tortured people in here.”
“I’ve had nicer holidays.”
“I have an offer for you, Mr. Audran,” said Dr. Yeniknani. “How would you like to hold off some of the effects of the aging process? Prevent the degeneration of your mind, the slow deterioration of your memory?”
“Uh oh,” I said. “There’s some kind of horrible catch coming, I can tell.”
“No catch. Dr. Lisan is experimenting with a technique that promises to do everything I just mentioned. Imagine never having to worry about your mental faculties wearing out as you get older. Your thought processes will be as sharp and quick when you’re two hundred as they are today.”
“Sounds great, Dr. Yeniknani. But you’re not talking about vitamin supplements here, are you?”
He gave me a rueful grin. “Well, no, not exactly. Dr. Lisan is working with plexiform cortical augmentation. He’s wrapping the cerebral cortex of the brain in a mesh of microscopic wire reticulations. The mesh is made of incredibly fine gold filaments to which are bonded the same organic nemes that link your corymbic implant to your central nervous system.”
“Uh huh.” It sounded like mad scientist stuff to me.
“The organic strands pass your brain’s electrical impulses from your cerebral cortex to the gold mesh, and back in the opposite direction. The mesh serves as an artificial storage mechanism. Our early results show that it can triple or quadruple the number of neuronal connections in your brain.”
“Like adding extra memory to a computer,” I said.
“That’s too easy an analogy,” said Dr. Yeniknani. I could tell that he was getting excited, explaining his research to me. “The nature of memory is holographic, you know, so we’re not just offering you a vast number of empty slots in which to file thoughts and recollections. It , goes beyond that — we’re supplying you with a better redundancy system. Your brain already stores each memory in many locations, but as brain cells wear out and die, some of these memories and learned activities disappear. With cortical augmentation, however, there is a capability for multiply storing information on a level many times higher than normal. Your mind will be safe, protected against gradual failure, except of course in the case of traumatic injury.”
“All I have to do,” I said dubiously, “is let you and Dr. Lisan plop my brain into a string bag, like a cabbage head at the market.”
“That’s all. You’ll never feel a thing.” Dr. Yeniknani grinned. “And I think I can promise, in addition, that the augmentation will speed up the processing in your brain. You’ll have the reflexes of a superman. You’ll—”
“How many people have you done this to, and how do they feel about it?”
He studied his long, tapered fingers. “We haven’t actually performed the operation on a human subject,” he said. “But our work with laboratory rats shows a lot of promise.”
I felt relieved. “I really thought you were trying to sell me on this,” I said.
“Just keep it in mind, Mr. Audran,” he said. “In a couple of years we’ll be looking for some brave volunteers to help us push back the frontiers of medicine.”
I reached up and tapped my two corymbic implants. “Not me. I’ve already done my part.”
Dr. Yeniknani shrugged. He leaned back in his chair and gazed at me thoughtfully. “I understand that you saved the life of your patron,” he said. “I once told you that death is desirable as our passage to paradise, and that you should not fear it. It is also true that life is even more desirable as our means of reconciliation with Allah, if we choose to follow the Straight Path. You are a courageous man.”
“I don’t think I really did anything brave,” I said. “I wasn’t really thinking about that at the time.”