Giff watched them go, then strode quickly to Dalt's side. He made a hurried check of the gravcuff, seemed satisfied, then stole off to one of the darker corners of the room. Seating himself on the floor, he reached into his pocket and removed a silvery disk; with his left hand he pushed back his skullcap and parted the hair atop his head. The disk was attached here as Giff leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Soon, a vague smile began to play around his lips.
("A button-head!") Pard exclaimed.
Looks that way. This is a real high-class crew we're mixed up with. Look at him! Must be one of those sexual recordings.
Giff had begun to writhe on the floor, his legs twisting, flexing, and extending with pleasure.
("I'm surprised you don't blame yourself for it.")
I do, in a way—
("Knew it!")
—even if it is a perversion of the circuitry we devised for electronic learning.
("Not quite true. If you remember, Tyrrell's motives for modifying the circuits from cognitive to sensory were quite noble. He—")
I know all about it, Pard. ...
The learning circuit and its sensory variation both had noble beginnings. The original, on which Dalt's patent had only recently expired, had been intended for use by scientists, physicians, and technicians to help them keep abreast of the developments in their sub-or sub-sub-specialties. With the vast amount of research and experimentation taking place across the human sector of the galaxy it was not humanly possible to keep up to date and still find time to put your knowledge to practical use. Dalt's (and Pard's) circuitry supplied the major breakthrough in transmitting information to the cognitive centers of the brain at a rapid rate.
Numerous variations and refinements followed, but Dr. Rico Tyrrell was the first to perfect the sensory mode of transmission. He used it in a drug rehabilitation program to duplicate the sensory effects of addictive drugs, thus weaning his patients psychologically off drugs after their physiological dependence was gone. The idea was quickly pirated, of course, and cassettes were soon available with sensory recordings of fantastic sexual experiences of all varieties.
Giff was whimpering now and flopping around on the floor.
("He's got to be a far-gone button-head to have to tune in at a time like this ... and right in front of a stranger, at that.")
I understand some of those cassettes are as addictive as Zemmelar and chronic users become impotent in real sexual contexts.
("How come we've never tried one?")
Dalt gave a mental sniff. I've never felt the need. And when the time comes that I need my head wired so I can get a little—
There was a groan in the corner: Giff had reached the peak of the recording. His body was arched so that only his palms, his heels, and the back of his skull were in contact with the floor. His teeth were clamped on his lower lip to keep him from crying out. Suddenly he slumped to the floor, limp and panting.
That must be quite a cassette!
("Most likely one of those new numbers that combines simultaneous male and female orgasms—the ultimate in sexual sensation.")
And that's all it is: sensation. There's no emotion involved.
("Right. Superonanism.") Pard paused as they watched their sated guard. ("Do you see what's hanging from his neck?")
Yeah. A flamestone. So?
("So it looks exactly like yours—a cheap imitation, no doubt, but the resemblance is remarkable. Ask him about it.")
Dalt shrugged with disinterest, then noticed Giff stirring. "Are you quite finished?"
The man groggily lifted his slight frame into a sitting position. "I disgust you, don't I," he stated with a low voice, keeping his eyes averted to the floor as he disconnected the cassette from his scalp.
"Not really," Dalt replied, and sincerity was evident in his voice. A few centuries ago he would have been shocked, but he had learned in the interim to view humanity from a more aloof vantage point—a frame of mind he had consciously striven for since his days as The Healer. It had been difficult to maintain at first, but as the years slid by, that frame of mind had become a natural and necessary component of his psyche.
He didn't despise Giff, nor did he pity him. Giff was merely one expression of the myriad possibilities open to human existence.
Dalt moved the gravcuffs downward and seated himself crosslegged on the floor. When Giff had stowed the cassette in a sealed compartment in his overalls, Dalt said, "That's quite a gem you have tied around your neck. Where'd you steal it?"
The fidgety man's eyes flashed uncharacteristically. "It's mine! It may not be real but it's mine. My father gave one to all his children, just as his own mother gave one to him." He held out the stone and gazed at its inner glow.
"Hm!" Dalt grunted. "Looks just like mine." Giff rose to his feet and approached Dalt. "So you're a Son of The Healer, too?"
"Wha'?"
"The stone ... it's a replica of the one The Healer wore centuries ago. All Children of The Healer wear one." He was standing over Dalt now and as he reached for the cord around his neck, Dalt idly considered ramming the gravcuff upward into Giff's face.
("That won't work,") Pard warned. ("Even if you did manage to knock him unconscious, what good would it do us? Just play along; I want to hear more about these Children of The Healer.")
So Dalt allowed Giff to inspect his flamestone as he sat motionless. "I'm no Son of The Healer. As a matter of fact, I wasn't aware that The Healer ever had children."
Giff let go of Dalt's gem and let it dangle from its cord again. "Just a figure of speech. We call ourselves his children—great-great-great-grandchildren would be more accurate—because none of us would have been born if it hadn't been for him."
Dalt gave him a blank stare and Giff replied in an exasperated tone, "I'm a descendant of one of the people he cured a couple of hundred years ago. She was a victim of the horrors. And if The Healer hadn't come along and straightened her out, she'd have been institutionalized for all her life; her two sons would never have been born, would never have had children of their own, and so on."
("And you wouldn't be here standing guard over us, idiot!") Pard muttered.
"The first generation of Children of The Healer," Giff went on, "was a social club of sorts, but the group soon became too large and too spread out. We have no organization now, just people who keep his name alive though their families and wear these imitation flame-stones. The horrors still strikes everywhere and some say The Healer will return."
"You believe that?" Dalt asked.
Giff shrugged. "I'd like to." His eyes studied Dalt's flamestone. "Yours is real, isn't it?"
Dalt hesitated for an instant, engaged in a lightning conference. Should I tell him?
("I think it's our only chance. It certainly won't worsen our situation.")
Neither Pard nor Dalt was afraid of physical violence or torture. With Pard in control of all physical systems,
Dalt would feel no pain and could at any time assume a deathlike state with a skin temperature cooled by intense vasoconstriction and cardiopulmonary activity slowed to minimal level.
Yeah. And I'd much prefer getting out of these cuffs and turning a few tables to rolling over and playing dead.
("That would gall me, too. Okay—play it to the hilt.")
"It's real, all right," Dalt told Giff. "It's the original."