“Did you examine the embryo after the operation?” Nourse asked.
Schruille sat up, stared at Svengaard.
“No, Nourse,” Svengaard said. “My duties were to secure the vat, check life support systems.” He took a deep breath. Perhaps they were only testing him after all… but such odd questions!
“Say now if Potter is a special friend,” Calapine ordered.
“He was one of my teachers, Calapine, someone I’ve worked with on delicate genetic problems.”
“But not in your particular circle,” Norse said.
Svengaard shook his head. Again, he sensed menace. He didn’t know what to expect—perhaps that the great globe would roll over, crush him, reduce his body to scattered atoms. But no, the Optimen couldn’t do that. He studied the three faces as they became clear through the power curtains, seeking a sign. Clean, sterile faces. He could see the genetic markers in their features—they might be any Sterries of the Folk except for the Optiman aura of mystery. Folk rumor said they were sterile by choice, that they saw breeding as the beginning of death, but the genetic clues of their features spoke otherwise to Svengaard.
“Why did you call Potter on this particular problem?” Nourse asked.
Svengaard took a tight, quavering breath, said, “He… the embryo’s genetic configuration… near-Opt. Potter is familiar with our hospital. He… I have confidence in him; brilliant sur—genetic engineer.”
“Say now if you are friendly with any other of our pharmacists,” Calapine said.
“They… I work with them when they come to our facility,” Svengaard said.
“Calapine,” Nourse supplied.
A trill of laughter shook her.
A dark flush spread up from Svengaard’s collar. He began to feel angry. What kind of test was this? Couldn’t they do anything but sit there, mocking, questioning?
Anger gave Svengaard command of his voice and he said, “I’m only head of genetic engineering at one facility, Nourse—a lowly district engineer. I handle routine cuttings. When something requires a specialist, I follow orders, call a specialist. Potter was the indicated specialist for this case.”
“One of the specialists,” Nourse said.
“One I know and respect,” Svengaard said. He didn’t bother adding the Optiman’s name.
“Say now if you are angry,” Calapine ordered, and there was that musical quality in her voice.
“I’m angry.”
“Say why.”
“Why am I here?” Svengaard asked. “What kind of interrogation is this? Have I done something wrong? Am I to be censured?”
Nourse bent forward, hands on knees. “You dare question us?”
Svengaard stared at the Optiman. In spite of the tone of the question, the square, heavy-boned face appeared reassuring, calming. “I’ll do anything I can to help you,” Svengaard said. “Anything. But how can I help or answer you when I don’t know what you want?”
Calapine started to speak, but stopped as Nourse raised a hand.
“Our most profound wish is that we could tell you,” Nourse said. “But surely you know we can have no true discourse. How could you understand what we understand? Can a wooden bowl contain sulphuric acid? Trust us. We seek what is best for you.”
A sense of warmth and gratitude permeated Svengaard. Of course he trusted them. They were the genetic apex of humankind. And he reminded himself: “They art the power that loves us and cares for us.”
Svengaard sighed. “What do you wish of me?”
“You have answered all our questions,” Nourse said. “Even our non-questions are answered.”
“Now, you will forget everything that has happened here between us,” Calapine said. “You will repeat our conversation to no person.”
Svengaard cleared his throat. “To no one… Calapine?”
“No one.”
“Max Allgood has asked that I report to him on -”
“Max must be denied,” she said. “Fear not, Thei Svengaard. We will protect you.”
“As you command,” Svengaard said. “Calapine.”
“It is not our wish that you think us ungrateful of your loyalty and services,” Nourse said. “We are mindful of your good opinion and would not appear cold nor callous in your eyes. Know that our concern is for the larger good of humankind.”
“Yes, Nourse,” Svengaard said.
It was a gratuitious speech, its tone disturbing to Svengaard, but it helped clear his reason. He began to see the direction of their curiosity, to sense their suspicions. Those were his suspicions now. Potter had betrayed his trust, had he? The business with the accidentally destroyed tape had not been an accident. Very well—the criminals would pay.
“You may go now,” Nourse said.
“With our blessing,” Calapine said.
Svengaard bowed. And he marked that Schruille had not spoken or moved during the entire interview. Svengaard wondered why this fact, of itself, should be a suddenly terrifying thing. His knees trembled as he turned, the acolytes flanking him with their smoking thuribles, and left the hall.
The Tuyere watched until the barrier dropped behind Svengaard.
“Another one who doesn’t know what Potter achieved.” Calapine said.
“Are you sure Max doesn’t know?” Schruille asked.
“I’m sure,” she said.
“Then we should’ve told him.”
“And told him how we knew?” she asked.
“I know the argument,” Schruille said. “Blunt the instrument, spoil the work.”
“That Svengaard, he’s one of the reliable ones,” Nourse said.
“It is said we walk the sharp edge of a knife,” Schruille said. “When you walk the knife, you must be careful how you place your feet.”
“What a disgusting idea,” Calapine said. She turned to Nourse. “Are you still hobbying da Vinci, dearest?”
“His brush stroke,” Nourse said. “A most exacting discipline. I should have it in forty or fifty years. Soon at any rate.”
“Provided you’ve placed each step correctly,” Schruille said.
Presently, Nourse said, “Sometimes, Schruille, you allow cynicism to carry you beyond the bounds of propriety.” He turned, studied the instrument gauges, sensors, peek-eyes and read-outs across from Calapine on the inner wall of the globe. “It’s reasonably quiet today. Shall we leave the control with Schruille, Cal, and go down for a swim and a pharmacy session.”
“Body tone, body tone,” Schruille complained. “Have you ever considered doing twenty-five laps of the pool instead of twenty?”
“You say the most astonishing things of late,” Calapine said. “Would you have Nourse upset his enzyme balance? I fail completely in my attempts to understand you.”
“Fail to try,” Schruille said.
“Is there anything we can do for you?” she asked.
“My cycle has plunged me into dreadful monotony,” Schruille said. “Is there something you can do about that?”
Nourse looked at Schruille in the prismatic reflector. The man’s voice with its suggestion of a whine had grown increasingly annoying of late. Nourse was beginning to regret that community of tastes and bodily requirements had thrown them together. Perhaps when the Tuyere’s service was done…
“Monotony,” Calapine said. She shrugged.
“There’s a certain triumph in well-considered monotony,” Nourse said. “That’s Voltaire, I believe.”
“It sounded like the purest Nourse,” Schruille said.
“I sometimes find it helpful,” Calapine said, “to invoke a benign concern for the Folk.”
“Even among ourselves?” Schruille asked.
“Consider the fate of the poor computer nurse,” she said. “In the abstract, naturally. Can you not feel sorrow and pity?”
“Pity’s a wasteful emotion,” Schruille said. “Sorrow is akin to cynicism.” He smiled. “This will pass. Go to your swim. When the vigor’s on you, think of me… here.”