And the woman plucks at his sleeve, and he sees that she is Katya, and he says, “What do you want?” She says, It’s too late. He says, “The next donor’s already been picked?” Yes. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me his name.” I don’t think! should. “Who is he?” You, she says.The world erupts in flame and flood. The laughter of Genghis Mao rolls through the heavens, shattering mountains. Shadrach awakens. He sits up. He clenches his fist and holds it tightly clenched. Out of Ulan Bator, four hundred kilometers to the east, comes the terrible jolt of Genghis Mao’s agony, the silent scream of the sensors reporiing the wave of pain that is sweeping through the Khan.
Shadrach approaches Interface Three and announces, “Shadrach Mordecai to serve the Khan.”
He is scanned. He is approved. He is admitted.
It is close to midnight. Shadrach goes at once to the Khan’s bedroom, but Genghis Mao is not there. Shadrach frowns. The Khan has been strong enough to leave his bed for the past several days, but it is odd that he should be wandering around this late at night. Shadrach finds a servitor who tells him that the Khan has spent most of the evening in the secluded study known as the Khan’s Retreat, on the far side of the seventy-five-story compound, and is probably there now.
Onward, then. Into the Khan’s office — he is not there — and thence to the private imperial dining room, empty, and then Shadrach goes into his own office, where he pauses a moment, collecting himself amid his familiar and beloved possessions, his sphygmomanometers and scalpels, his microtomes and trephines. Here, in a flask, is the authentic abdominal aorta of Genghis II Mao IV Khan. Surely a treasure of medical history, that one. And here, the newest addition to Shadrach’s museum, is a lock of Genghis Mao’s thick, rank, preternaturally dark hair, an exhibit perhaps more fitting for a museum of witchcraft and voodoo than one of medicine, but yet appropriate, for it was removed in the course of preparations for brain surgery carried out successfully in the celebrated patient’s ninetieth (or eighty-fifth, or ninety-fifth, or whatever) year of life. And so. Onward. He presents himself to the door of the Khan’s Retreat and asks entry.
The door rolls back.
The Khan’s Retreat is the room least used on the floor, accessible only through Shadrach’s office and insulated against the intrusion of even the loudest external distractions. Its ceiling is low, its lights are dim, its furnishings are ornate and oriental, running toward thick draperies and elaborate carpets. Genghis Mao lies on a cushioned divan along the left-hand wall. Already his shaven scalp is coveted by a thin black stubble. The vitality of the man is irrepressible. But he looks shaken, even dazed.
“Shadrach,” he says. His voice is thick and scratchy. “I knew you’d get here. You felt it, didn’t you? About an hour and a half ago. I thought my head was going to explode.”
“I felt it, yes.”
“You told me you were putting a valve in me. To drain off the fluid, you said.”
“We did, sir.”
“Doesn’t it work right?”
“It works perfectly, sir,” Shadrach says mildly.
Genghis Mao looks confused. “Then what made my head hurt so much a litlle while ago?”
“This did,” says Shadrach. He smiles and stretches forth his left hand and clenches his fist.
For a moment nothing happens. Then Genghis Mao’s eyes widen in shock and amazement. He growls and clamps his hands to his temples. He bites his lip, he bows his naked head, he drives his knuckles against his eyes, he mutters anguished guttural curses. The implanted sensors that report on the bodily functions of the Khan tell Shadrach of the intense reactions within Genghis Mao: pulse and respiration rates climbing alarmingly, blood pressure dropping, intracranial pressure severe. Genghis Mao coils into a huddled ball, shivering, groaning. Shadrach lets his fingers relax. Gradually the pain recedes from Genghis Mao, the tense crumpled body uncoils, and Shadrach ceases to feel the broadcast of shock symptoms. Genghis Mao looks up. He stares at Shadrach for a long moment.