In the hotel room he handed over a copy of the ownership papers to Deg Dal Il; in case trouble arose during his absence the papers would prove that the reeg had not escaped from a POW camp, nor was he a spy. In addition Eric provided him with money. And instructed him to contact TF&D if any difficulty – especially the appearance of 'Star intelligence agents – supervened. The reeg was to remain in the hotel room at all times, eating his meals there, watching the TV if he wished, admitting no one if he could avoid it, and if somehow 'Star agents got through to him, he was to reveal nothing. Even if this brought about his death.
'I think it's my place to tell you that,' Eric said, 'not because I lack respect for reeg life or because I believe Terrans ought to tell a reeg when to die and when not to but simply because I know the situation and you do not. You'll just have to accept my word that it's that important.' He waited for the box to light up but it did not. 'No comment?' he asked, disappointed in a vague way. There had been so little real contact between him and the reeg; it seemed a bad omen, somehow.
At last the box, reluctantly, lit.
GOOD-BY
'You have nothing else to say?' Eric said, incredulous.
WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
'It's on the forms I gave you,' Eric said, and left the hotel room, shutting the door loudly after him.
Outdoors on the sidewalk he hailed an old-fashioned surface cab and told its human driver to take him to TF&D.
Fifteen minutes later he once more entered the attractive apteryx-shaped, gray-lit building and made his way down the familiar corridor to his own office. Or what had until recently been his office.
Miss Perth, his secretary, blinked in amazement. 'Why, Dr Sweetscent – I thought you were in Cheyenne!'
'Is Jack Blair around?' He glanced toward the parts bins but he did not see his departmental assistant. Bruce Himmel, however, lurked in the dim last row, an inventory chart and clipboard in one hand. 'How'd you make out with the San Diego Public Library?' Eric asked him.
Startled, Himmel rose to a standing position. 'I'm appealing, doctor. I'll never give up. How come you're back here in
Tijuana?'
Til Perth said, 'Jack is upstairs conferring with Mr Virgil Ackerman, doctor. You look tired. It's a lot of work there in Cheyenne, isn't it? Such a big responsibility.' Her long-lashed blue eyes showed sympathy and her large breasts seemed to swell a trifle in a motherly, mobile, nourishing way. 'Can I fix you a cup of coffee?'
'Sure. Thanks.' He seated himself at his desk and rested for a moment, thinking back over the day. Strange that all these things had happened in a sequence which had returned him to this spot, to his own chair at last. Was this in some sense the end? Had he played out his little – or not so little – part in a brawl involving three races of the galaxy? Four, if the rotten-pear-shaped creatures from Betelgeuse were included ... and out of sentiment he did. Perhaps the load was off him. A vidcall to Cheyenne, to Molinari; that would do it and once more he would be Virgil Ackerman's physician, replacing organ after organ as they gave out. But there was still Kathy. Was she here at TF&D's infirmary? Or in a San Diego hospital? Perhaps she was trying to resume her life, despite the addiction, doing her job for Virgil. She was not a coward; she would keep pushing until the end.
'Is Kathy here in the building?' he asked Til Perth.
'I'll check for you, doctor.' She jiggled the button of her desk-corn. There's your coffee, beside your elbow.'
'Thanks.' He sipped the coffee with gratitude. It was almost like old times; his office had always been for him an oasis where things were rational, safe from the fury of his botched-up domestic life. Here he could pretend that people were nice to one another, that relationships between people could be merely friendly, merely casual. And yet – that was not enough. There had to be intimacy, too. Even with its threat of becoming a destroying force.
Taking paper and pen, he wrote out from memory the formula for the antidote to JJ-180.
'She's in the infirmary on the fourth floor,' Miss Perth rinformed him. 'I didn't know she was sick; is it serious?'
Eric handed her the paper, folded. Take this to Jonas. He'll know what it is and what to do with it.' He wondered if he should go up to Kathy, tell her that the antidote would soon be • in existence. Beyond the shadow of a doubt he was obliged to, by the most fundamental structure of decency. 'Okay,' he said, rising. 'I'll go see her.'
'Give her my best,' Til Perth called after him as he plodded out of the office into the hall.
'Sure,' he murmured.
When he reached the fourth floor infirmary he found Kathy, wearing a white cotton gown, seated in a reclining chair, her legs crossed, feet bare. She was reading a magazine. She looked old and shrunken, and obviously under heavy sedation.
'Best wishes,' he said to her, 'from Til.'
Slowly, with conspicuous difficulty, Kathy glanced up, focused her gaze on him. 'Any – news for me?'
'The antidote's in town. Or soon will be. All Hazeltine Corp. has to do is whip up a batch and express it here. Another six hours.' He made an attempt to smile encouragingly; it failed. 'How do you feel?'
'Fine now. Since you brought me the news.' She was surprisingly matter-of-fact, even for her with her schizoid ways. The sedation no doubt accounted for it. 'You did it, didn't you? Found it for me.' Then, at last remembering, she added, 'Oh yes, and for yourself, too. But you could have kept it, not told me. Thanks, dear.'
'"Dear."' It hurt to hear her use such a word to him.
'I can see,' Kathy said carefully, 'that underneath you really are fond of me still, despite what I've done to you. Otherwise you wouldn't—'
'Sure I would; you think I'm a moral monster? The cure should be a matter of public record, available for anyone who's on the damn stuff. Even 'Starmen. As far as I'm concerned deliberately addictive toxic drugs are an abomination, a crime against life.' He was silent then, thinking to himself, And someone who addicts another is a criminal and ought to be hanged or shot. 'I'm leaving,' he said. 'Going back to Cheyenne. I'll see you. Good luck on your therapy.' He added, trying not to make it sound deliberately unkind, 'You know, it won't restore the physical damage already done; you understand that, Kathy.'
'How old,' she asked,'do I look?'
'You look what you are, about thirty-five.'
'No.' She shook her head. 'I've seen in the mirror.'
Eric said, 'See to it, will you, that everyone who took the drug that night with you, that first time, gets some of the antidote; I'll trust you to do that. Okay?'
'Of course. They're my friends.' She toyed with a corner of her magazine. 'Eric, I can't expect you to stay with me now, with the way I am physically. All withered and—' She broke off and became silent.
Was this his chance? He said, 'You want a divorce, Kathy? If you do I'll give it to you. But personally—' He hesitated. How far could hypocrisy go? What was really required of him now? His future self, his compatriot from 2056, had pleaded with him to break loose from her. Didn't all aspects of reason dictate that he do so and if possible right now?
In a low voice Kathy said, 'I still love you. I don't want to separate. I'll try to treat you better; honesty I will. I promise.'