Now they approached an old man who was sitting inside a giant plastic bell jar, suspended in some milky liquid like the remains of an amputated organ. His skin was yellow and shrunken so the eyeballs lay half-exposed in their sockets, and the lips, shriveled like dried peppers, left his teeth bare. The effect was. ironically, one of a huge grin.
Closer inspection would reveal hundreds of thousands of fine wires entering at the forehead, connecting the eight lobes of the cerebrum to a stereoscopic camera, a sensitive listening device, an olfactory sensor and a speaker grill; more connecting the three lobes of the cerebellum to a motor that steered the cube along on built-in wheels, at speeds up to twenty miles an hour.
Such an inspection would also turn up the tiny tubes which entered through the chest, introducing a mechanically oxygenated fluorocarbon emulsion into the left ventricle in place of blood. The pulmonary circulation, serving no purpose, had been disconnected.
A miraculous machine—who could argue?—self-contained, nuclear-powered and self-propelled, a feat of engineering which would have turned the ancient Egyptians, those mummy makers par excellence, green with envy.
“What is it?’’ Hali whispered, swallowing her horror.
“My father.”
“But the machine ... ?”
“A life preserver. It keeps his brain going and his body from rotting.”
“You mean he’s dead?”
“Sure. Most of our politicians have been dead for years.”
The twin lenses of the stereoptic camera located atop the bell jar swiveled to focus on Nick and a voice like the grinding of ill-matched gears sounded, expressionless, from the speaker grill beneath it.
“Hello, Nicholas, what a pleasure.”
Within the jar neither teeth nor lips nor jaw so much as quivered. The ultimate ventriloquist act, voice and body wholly disconnected.
“Hello, Pop,” Nick said. “How are you?”
“How well can I be tied to this machine? If not for my duty as a public servant I would have myself disconnected. And you, Nicholas, are you feeling well? Have you been fired from the job yet?”
“You know damn well I’ve still got the job—or why would I be here with Ms. Hasannah?”
“Don’t talk to me that way, Nicholas. If not for my influence you wouldn’t have any job at all.”
“Damn it, that’s not true, there are a million jobs I could—”
“Quiet!—you’re attracting attention. Ms. Hasannah, accept my apology for my son’s lack of manners. He has never learned the respect for age which is, I believe, practiced on your own planet. And now I would like to introduce you to a friend of all Alta-Tyberians.”
The stereoptic camera aimed at a nearby chair where a man of sixty was watching with amusement. Nick recognized him immediately, the fatherly grin, the crinkly flesh around the eyes. . . .
“Ms. Hasannah, the next president of the United Federation of Planets, Johnny Quog.”
He rose from the chair and took her hand, his very presence radiating solace.
“I cannot begin to tell you,” he said, “what an honor it is to meet the distinguished emissary from Alta-Tyberia. The Peace Party extends every consideration to you and your people during this terrible genetic crisis.”
“Thank you.” Hali dipped her head.
“It’s difficult,” the senator said, “to talk with all this noise.
Let’s move to the solarium—it’s a bit more secluded.”
“Sure,” Nick said.
“I’m sorry, Nicholas, but we will be discussing matters of galactic security, highly confidential.”
Nick nodded. “Fine. I’ll wait here.”
And he watched, allowing no sign of the rage welling within as Johnny Quog took Hali by the arm and Senator Harmon rolled along after them, motors whirring softly.
It was only twenty minutes before Hali returned. Meanwhile Nick had gotten himself involved in a game of hepti-card draw with the mayor of Averyville and the chief of police—Bob Clinger, Althea’s father—and lost 211 credits. He made a point of playing a few minutes longer before turning in his cards; he had waited for her, now she would wait for him. Outside, the doorman hailed them a MagLev cab.
Nick would not speak to Hali during the ride, nor would he look at her. Instead he gazed out the window at the constellations of light which were Averyville at night.
“Mr. Harmon,” Hali said, “the feud between you and your father is no reason why we should not be friends.”
“What feud?” Nick grumbled. “There’s no feud.”
“I accompanied them because it is my duty, not because I prefer their company. Now let us talk again and be friends.”
“We’re friends,” Nick growled.
Hali sighed. “Mr. Harmon, how you vex me! Would you like to know what we spoke of? Would that restore your confidence?”
“Matters of galactic security—”
“Damn galactic security! The senator offered us full worldhood in the Federation. He said that if we had worldhood we could qualify as a genetic disaster area and receive a hundred billion credits in aid. I don’t know if you are aware of it, Mr. Harmon, but the cost of solving the Alta-Ty problem—if there is a solution—and administering the antidote is astronomical. We have no industry, no exports of value; in terms of interstellar trade, we are impoverished!”
“What about the pallinite?” Nick murmured.
“Yes, the pallinite.” Her voice grew heavy and bitter. “That is certainly the solution. We will give you pallinite so you humans, with your great wisdom and prudence, may determine the fate of life in our galaxy.”
Now it was Hali’s turn to be silent, Nick’s to make amends.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m just selfish. I get all caught up in my own little quarrels and forget what’s at stake for the Alta-Tyberians.”
She grinned at him. “Let us forgive each other and be done with it.”
“Great.”
“But tell me something. Your father, was he always so? I find it difficult to believe that you are related. You are so innocent and he is so . . . calculating."
Nick sighed and was silent for a while, thinking. Then: “He was a different person when Mom was alive, one of the nicest guys you could imagine. He wasn’t a politician then, he was a genochemist like Scolpes—well, not like Scolpes, but pretty damn good. He did some of the research that led to curing manic-depression in humans. When I was eleven Mom went back to Terra to visit Grandma and Grandpa and her ship was destroyed. It warped improperly and turned into antimatter, a one-in-a-million thing. My father didn’t want to live any more. A couple of weeks later he got contaminated by an alien virus he was trying to crack. His bones turned soft and his body began to shrivel. His brain was all right, so they bottled him. And that’s when he changed. All the compassion went out of him. That was also when he got interested in power and politics.”
“Yes,” Hali said sympathetically. “The soul leaves at death just as tenants vacate a crumbling house. No amount of clever machinery will make it stay.”
“The soul?” Dimly Nick recalled it as a concept of preclas-sical Terran superstitions. “What is the soul?”
“That which makes us what we are.”
“DNA, you mean?”
“Fine beyond DNA,” Hali said. “Fine beyond time and space and the meddling of human fingers.”
VIII
That was the last Nick saw of Hali for almost a week. He was too busy wrapping up assignments, canceling social engagements and otherwise clearing the next three weeks so that he would be free to show her the Lifestyler Temples. He hoped that by the time they returned the antidotal virus would be synthesized, the Alta-Tyberian race would be saved; the woman would be free to return to her home world and Nick to his normal routine. Nick had always resented anything that intruded on his normal routine. He couldn’t understand why the prospect of this trip excited him so.