Dalt sat down. The situation was finally sinking in. "Oh, well," he said resignedly. "They're doing wonderful things with prosthetics these days."
("Prosthetics! We'll grow a new one!")
Dalt paused before answering. "A new hand?"
("Of course! You've still got deposits of omnipotential mesenchymal cells here and there in your body. I'll just have them transported to the stump, and with me guiding the process there'll be no problem to rebuilding the hand. It's really too bad you humans have no conscious control over the physiology of your bodies. With the proper direction, the human body is capable of almost anything.")
"You mean I'll have my hand back? Good as new?"
("Good as new. But at the moment I suggest we get into the ship and depart. The brain has called the Duke and it might be a good thing if we weren't here when he arrived.")
"You know," Dalt said as he entered the shuttlecraft and let the port swing to a close behind him, "with you watching over my body, I could live to a ripe old age."
("All I have to do is keep up with the degenerative changes and you'll live forever.")
Dalt stopped in midstride. "Forever?"
("Of course. The old natives of this planet knew it when they made up that warning for their children: 'Of every thousand struck down, nine hundred and ninety-nine will die.' The obvious conclusion is that the thousandth victim will not die.")
"Ever?"
("Well, there's not much I can do if you catch an energy bolt in the chest like Anthon back there. But otherwise, you won't die of old age—I'll see to that. You won't even get old, for that matter.")
The immensity of what Pard was saying suddenly struck Dalt with full force. "In other words," he breathed, "I'm immortal."
("I'd prefer a different pronoun: We are immortal.")
"I don't believe it."
("I don't care what you believe. I'm going to keep you alive for a long, long time, Steve, because while you live, I live, and I've grown very fond of living.")
Dalt did not move, did not reply.
("Well, what are you waiting for? There's a whole galaxy of worlds out there just waiting to be seen and experienced and I'm getting damn sick of this one!")
Dalt smiled. "What's the hurry?"
There was a pause, then: ("You've got a point there, Steve. There's really no hurry at all. We've got all the time in the world. Literally.")
Part Two: HEAL THY NEIGHBOR
YEAR 218
It is difficult in these times to appreciate the devastating effect of "the horrors." It was not a plague in the true sense: it struck singly, randomly, wantonly.. It jumped between planets, from one end of Occupied Space to the other, closing off the minds of victim after victim. To date we remain ignorant of the nature of the malady. An effective prophylaxis was never devised. And there was only one known cure—a man called The Healer.
The Healer made his initial public appearance at the Chesney Institute for Psychophysiologic Disorders on Largo IV under the auspices of the Interstellar Medical Corps. Intense investigative reporting by the vid services at the time revealed that a man of similar appearance (and there could have been only one then) was seen frequently about the IMC research center on To-live.
IMC, however, has been steadfastly and frustratingly recalcitrant about releasing any information concerning its relationship with The Healer, saying only that they gave him "logistical support" as he went from planet to planet. As to whether they discovered his talent, developed his talent, or actually imbued him with his remarkable psionic powers, only IMC knows.
from The Healer: Man & Myth by Emmerz Fent
IV
The man strolls slowly along one of Chesney's wide thoroughfares, enjoying the sun. His view of the street ahead of him is suddenly blotted out by the vision of a huge, contorted face leering horribly at him. For an instant he thinks he can feel the brush of its breath on his face. Then it is gone.
He stops and blinks. Nothing like this has ever happened to him before. He tentatively scrapes a foot forward to start walking again and kicks up a cloud of—
—dust. An arid wasteland surrounds him and the sun regards him cruelly, reddening and blistering his skin. And when he feels that his blood is about to boil, the sky is suddenly darkened by the wings of a huge featherless bird which circles twice and then dives in his direction at a speed which will certainly smash them both. Closer, the cavernous beaked mouth is open and hungry. Closer, until he is—
—back on the street. The man leans against the comforting solidity of a nearby building. He is bathed in sweat and his respiration is ragged, gulping. He is afraid ... must find a doctor. He pushes away from the building and—
—falls into a black void. But it is not a peaceful blackness. There's hunger there. He falls, tumbling in eternity. A light below. As he falls nearer, the light takes shape ... an albino worm, blind, fanged and miles long, awaits him with gaping jaws.
A scream is torn from him, yet there is no sound.
And still he falls.
V
Pard was playing games again. The shuttle from Tarvodet had docked against the orbiting liner and as the passengers were making the transfer, he attempted to psionically influence their choice of seats.
("The guy in blue is going to sit in the third recess on the left.")
Are you reading him? Dalt asked.
("No, nudging him.")
You never give up, do you? You've been trying to work this trick for as long as I can remember.
("Yeah, but this time I think I've got it down. Watch.")
Dalt watched as the man in blue suddenly stopped before the third recess on the left, hesitated, then entered and seated himself.
"Well, congratulations," Dalt whispered aloud.
("Thank you, sir. Now watch the teenager sit in the same recess.")
The lanky young man in question ambled by the third recess on the left without so much as a glance and settled himself in the fifth on the right.
("Damn!")
What happened?
("Ah, the kid probably had his mind already made up that he wanted to sit there ... probably does a lot of traveling and likes that seat.")
Possible. It's also possible that the guy in blue does a lot of traveling, too, and that he just so happens to like to sit in the third recess on the left.
("Cynicism doesn't become you, Steve.")
Well, it's hard to be an ingenue after a couple of centuries with you.
("Then let me explain. You see, I can't make a person part his hair on the left if he prefers it parted on the right. However, if he doesn't give a damn where it's parted, I can probably get him to do it my way.")
A slim, blond beauty in an opalescent clingsuit strolled through the port.
("Okay, where should we make her sit?")
I don't care.
("Oh, yes you do. Your heart rate just increased four beats per minute and your groin is tingling.") I'll admit she's attractive—
("She's more than that. She bears a remarkable resemblance to Jean, doesn't she?") I really hadn't noticed.
("Come now, Steve. You know you can't lie to me. You saw the likeness immediately ... you've never forgotten that woman.")
And he probably never would. It was over 140 standard years since he'd left her. What started as a casual shipboard romance during the Kwashi expedition had stretched into an incredible idyll. She accepted him completely, though it had puzzled her that he'd refused disability compensation for the loss of his left hand on Kwashi. Her puzzlement was short-lived, however, and was soon replaced by astonishment when it became evident that her lover's hand was growing back. She'd heard of alien creatures who could regenerate limbs and there was talk that the Interstellar Medical Corps was experimenting with induced regeneration, but this was spontaneous!