'I don't believe so,' Jim said. 'No matter what line of work I was in.' It went against everything ethical - and esthetic - in his makeup.
The elevator door slid back.
'Here we are,' Sal said. 'This is George Walt's private office.' He spoke matter of factly. 'Hello,
George Walt,' he said, and stepped out of the elevator.
The two mutants sat at their big cherrywood desk in their specially constructed wide couch. One of the bodies sagged like a limp sack and one eye had become fused-over and empty, lolling as it focused on nothing.
In a shrill voice the head said, 'He's dying. I think he's even dead; you know he's dead.' The active eye fixed malignantly on Tito Cravelli, who stood with his laser rifle, on the far side of the office. In despair, one of the living hands poked at the dangling, inert arm of his companion body. 'Say something!' the head screeched. With immense difficulty the living body struggled to its feet; now its silent companion flopped against it and in horror it pushed the burdening lifeless sack away.
A faint spasm of life stirred the dangling sack; it was not quite dead. And, on the face of the uninjured brother, wild hope appeared. At once it tottered grotesquely toward the door.
'Run!' the head bleated, and clumsily groped for escape. 'You can make it!' it urged its still-living companion. The four-legged, scrambling joint creature bowled over the surprised volunteers at the door; together they all went down in a floundering heap, the mutant among them, squealing in panic as the injured body buried the other beneath it, struggling to rise.
Jim Briskin, as George Walt lurched upright, dived at them. He caught hold of an arm and hung on.
The arm came off.
He held onto it as George Walt stumbled up to their four feet and out the office door, into the corridor beyond.
Staring down at it, he said, 'The thing's artificial.' He handed it to Sal Heim.
'So it is,' Sal agreed, stonily. Tossing the arm aside he hastily ran after George Walt; Jim accompanied him and together they followed the mutants along the thick-carpeted corridor. The three-armed organism moved badly, crashing into itself as its twin bodies swung first wide apart and then stunningly together. It sprawled, then, and Sal Heim seized the right hand body around the waist.
The entire body came loose, arm and legs and trunk. But without the head. The other body - and single head - managed, incredibly, to get up and continue on.
George Walt was not a mutant at all. It - he - was an ordinarily-constituted individual. Jim
Briskin and Sal watched him go, his two legs pumping vigorously, arms swinging.
After a long time Jim said, 'Let's - get out of here.'
'Right.' Nodding in agreement, Sal turned to the party volunteers who had trickled out into the corridor behind them. Tito Cravelli emerged from the office, rifle in hand; he saw the severed one-armed trunk which had been half of the two mutants, glanced up swiftly with perceptive understanding as the remaining portion disappeared from view past a corner of the corridor.
'We'll never catch them now,' Tito said.
'Him,' Sal Heim corrected bitingly. 'I wonder which one of them was synthetic, George or Walt.
And why did he do it ? I don't understand.'
Tito said, 'A long time ago one must have died.'
They both stared at him.
'Sure,' Tito said calmly. 'What happened here today must have happened before. They were mutants, all right, joined from birth, and then the one body perished and the surviving one quickly had this synthetic section built. It couldn't have gone on alone without the symbiotic arrangement because the brain - ' He broke off. 'You saw what it did to the surviving one just now; he suffered terribly. Imagine how it must have been the first time, when ...'
'But he survived it,' Sal pointed out.
'Good for him,' Tito said, without irony. 'I'm frankly glad he did; he deserved to.' Kneeling down, he inspected the trunk. 'It looks to me as if this is George. I hope he can get it restored. In time.'
He rose, then. 'Let's get upstairs and back to the field; I want to get out of here.' He shivered.
'Then I want a glass of warm, non-fat milk. A big one.' The three of them, with the party volunteers struggling behind, made their way silently back to the elevator. No one stopped them.
The corridor, mercifully, was empty. Without even a pic to leer and cajole at them.
When they arrived back in Chicago, Patricia Heim met them and at once said, 'Thank God.' She put her arms around her husband, and he hugged her tight. 'What happened ? It seemed to take so long, and yet it actually wasn't long at all; you've only been gone an hour.'
'I'll tell you later,' Sal said shortly. 'Right now I just want to take it easy.'
'Maybe I'll cease advocating shutting the Golden Door satellite down,' Jim said suddenly.
'What ?' Sal said, astonished.
'I may have been too hard. Too puritanical. I'd prefer not to take away his livelihood; it seems to me he's earned it.' He felt numb right now, unable really to think about it. But what had shocked him the most, changed him, had not been the sight of George Walt coming apart into two entities, one artificial, one genuine. It had been Lurton Sands' disclosure about the mass of maimed bibs.
He had been thinking about this, trying to see a way out. Obviously, if the maimed bibs were to be awakened at all they would have to be last in sequence. And by then perhaps replacement organs would be available in supply from the UN's organ bank. But there was another possibility, and he had come onto it only just now. George Walt's corporate existence proved the workability of wholly mechanical organs. And in this Jim Briskin saw hope for Lurton Sands' victims.
Possibly a deal could be made with George Walt; he - or they - would be left alone if they would reveal the manufacture of their highly sophisticated and successful artificial components. It was, most likely, a West German firm; the cartels were most advanced in such experimentation. But it could of course be engineers under contract to the satellite alone, in permanent residence there.
In any case, four hundred lives represented a great number, worth any effort at saving. Worth any deal, he decided, with George Walt, which could be brought off.
'Let's get something warm to drink,' Pat said. 'I'm freezing.' She started toward the front door of
Republican-Liberal party headquarters, key in hand. 'We can fix some synthetic non- toxic coffee inside.'
As they stood around the coffee pot waiting for it to heat, Tito said, 'Why not let the satellite decline naturally ? As emigration begins it can serve a steadily dwindling market. You implied something along those lines in your Chicago speech anyhow.'
'I've been up there before,' Sal said, 'as you know. And it didn't kill me. Tito's been there before, too, and it didn't warp or kill him.'
'Okay, okay,' Jim said. 'If George Walt leaves me alone, I'll leave them alone. But if they keep after me, or if they won't make a deal regarding artif-org construction - then it'll be necessary to do something. In any case the welfare of those four hundred bibs comes first.'
'Coffee's ready.' Pat said, and began pouring.
Sipping, Sal Heim said, 'Tastes good.'
'Yes,' Jim Briskin agreed. In fact the cup of hot coffee, synthetic and non-toxic as it had to be
(only low-stratum dorm-housed Cols drank the genuine thing) was exactly what he needed. It made him feel a lot better.
Although the time was dreadfully late at night, Myra Sands had made up her mind to call Art and
Rachael Chaffy at their dorm. She had reached a decision regarding their case, and the moment had arrived to tell them.
When the vidphone connection had been made to their public hall booth, Mrs. Sands said, 'I'm sorry to bother you so late, Mr. Chaffy.'
"That's all right,' Art said, sleepily. Obviously, he and his wife had gone to bed. 'What is it ?'
'I think you should go ahead and have your baby,' Myra said.
'You do ? But...'
'If you had listened to Jim Briskin's Chicago speech, you would know why,' Myra said. 'There'll soon be a need for new families; everything has changed. My advice to you and your wife is to apply to Terran Development for permission to emigrate by means of their new system. You might as well be among the first. You deserve to be.'