“The Sun, you mean,” said Doctor Vomact. “No, I should think not. I suppose it looked that way to your ancestors and mine half a million years ago, when we were all running around naked on Earth.” The doctor busied himself as he talked. He chopped the air with a strange-looking little key, and the tapes fell loose. The mittens dropped off Rod’s hands. Rod looked at his own hands in the intense light and saw that they seemed strange. They looked smooth and naked and clean, like the doctor’s own hands. Weird memories began to come back to him, but his handicap about spieking and hiering telepathically had made him cautious and sensitive, so he did not give himself away.
“If this is old, old Mars, what are you doing, talking the Old North Australian language to me? I thought my people were the only ones in the universe who still spoke Ancient Inglish.” He shifted proudly but clumsily over to the Old Common Tongue: “You see, the Appointed Ones of my family taught me this language as well. I’ve never been offworld before.”
“I speak your language,” said the doctor, “because I learned it. I learned it because you paid me, very generously, to learn it. In the months that we have been reassembling you, it’s come in handy. We just let down the portal of memory and identity today, but I’ve talked to you for hundreds of hours already.”
Rod tried to speak.
He could not utter a word. His throat was dry and he was afraid that he might throw up his food — if he had eaten any.
The doctor put a friendly hand on his arm. “Easy, Mister and Owner McBan, easy now. We all do that when we come out.”
Rod croaked, “I’ve been dead? Dead? Me?”
“Not exactly dead,” said the doctor, “but close to it.”
“The box — that little box!” cried Rod.
“What little box?”
“Please, doctor — the one I came in?”
“That box wasn’t so little,” said Doctor Vomact. He squared his hands in the air and made a shape about the size of the little ladies’ bonnet-box which Rod had seen in the Lord Redlady’s private operating room. “It was this big. Your head was full natural size. That’s why it’s been so easy and so successful to bring you back to normality in such a hurry.”
“And Eleanor?”
“Your companion? She made it, too. Nobody intercepted the ship.”
“You mean the rest is true, too. I’m still the richest man in the universe? And I’m gone, gone from home?” Rod would have liked to beat the bedspread, but did not.
“I am glad,” said Doctor Vomact, “to see you express so much feeling about your situation. You showed a great deal when you were under the sedatives and hypnotics, but I was beginning to wonder how we could help you realize your true position when you came back, as you have, to normal life. Forgive me for talking this way. I sound like a medical journal. It’s hard to be friends with a patient, even when one really likes him…”
Vomact was a small man, a full head shorter than Rod himself, but so gracefully proportioned that he did not look stunted or little. His face was thin, with a mop of ungovernable black hair which fell in all directions. Among Norstrilians, this fashion would have been deemed eccentric; to judge by the fact that other Earthmen let their hair grow wild and long, it must have been an Earth fashion. Rod found it foolish but not repulsive.
It was not Vomact’s appearance which caused the impression. It was the personality which tingled out of every pore. Vomact could become calm when he knew, from his medical wisdom, that kindness and tranquility were in order, but these qualities were not usual to him. He was vivacious, moody, lively, talkative to an extreme, but he was sensitive enough to the person to whom he was talking: he never became a bore. Even among Norstrilian women, Rod bad never seen a person who expressed so much, so fluently. When Vomact talked, his hands were in constant motion — outlining, describing, clarifying the points which he described. When he talked he smiled, scowled, raised his eyebrows in questioning, stared with amazement, looked aside in wonder. Rod was used to the sight of two Norstrilians having a long telepathic conversation, spieking and hiering one another as their bodies reposed, comfortable and immobile, while their minds worked directly on one another. To do all this with the speaking voice — that, to a Norstrilian, was a marvel to hear and behold. There was something graceful and pleasant about the animation of this Earth doctor which stood in complete contrast to the quick dangerous decisiveness of the Lord Redlady. Rod began to think that if Earth were full of people, all of them like Vomact, it must be a delightful but confusing place. Vomact once hinted that his family was unusual, so that even in the long weary years of perfection, when everyone else had numbers, they kept their family name secret but remembered.
One afternoon Vomact suggested that they walk across the Martian plain a few kilometers to the ruins of the first human settlement on Mars. “We have to talk,” said he, “but it is easy enough to talk through these soft helmets. The exercise will do you good. You’re young and you will take a lot of conditioning.”
Rod agreed.
Friends they became in the ensuing days.
Rod found that the doctor was by no means as young as he looked, just ten years or so older than himself. The doctor was a hundred and ten years old, and had gone through his first rejuvenation just ten years before. He had two more and then death, at the age of four hundred, if the present schedule were kept for Mars.
“You may think, Mister McBan, that you are an upset, wild type yourself. I can promise you, young bucko, that Old Earth is such a happy mess these days that they will never notice you. Haven’t you heard about the Rediscovery of Man?”
Rod hesitated. He had paid no attention to the news himself, but he did not want to discredit his home planet by making it seem more ignorant than it really was. “Something about language, wasn’t it? And length of life, too? I never paid much attention to off-planet news, unless it was technical inventions or big battles. I think some people in Old North Australia have a keen interest in Old Earth itself. What was it, anyhow?”
“The Instrumentality finally took on a big plan. Earth had no dangers, no hopes, no rewards, no future except endlessness. Everybody stood a thousand-to-one chance of living the four hundred years which was allotted for persons who earned the full period by keeping busy—”
“Why didn’t everybody do it?” interrupted Rod.
“The Instrumentality took care of the shorties in a very fair way. If offered them wonderfully delicious and exciting vices when they got to be about seventy. Things that combined electronics, drugs and sex in the subjective mind. Anybody who didn’t have a lot of work to do ended up getting ‘the blissfuls’ and eventually died of sheer fun. Who wants to take time for mere hundred-years renewals when they can have five or six thousand years of orgies and adventures every single night?”
“Sounds horrible to me,” said Rod. “We have our Giggle Rooms, but people die in them right away. They don’t mess around, dying among their neighbors. Think of the awful interaction you must get with the normals.”
Doctor Vomact’s face clouded over with anger and grief. He turned away and looked over the endless Martian plains. Dear blue Earth hung friendlily in the sky. He looked up at the star of Earth as though he hated it and he said to Rod, his face still turned away,
“You may have a point there, Mister McBan. My mother was a shortie and after she gave up, my father went too. And I’m a normal. I don’t suppose I’ll get over what it did to me. They weren’t my real parents, of course — there was nothing that dirty in my family — but they were my final adopters. I’ve always thought that you Old North Australians were crazy, rich barbarians for killing off your teen-agers if they didn’t jump enough or something crude like that, but I’ll admit that you’re clean barbarians. You don’t make yourselves live with the sweet sick stink of death inside your own apartments…”