Bonner nodded slowly and said, “Yeah.”
“What about Magellan? Has it survived the loss of its computer heart?”
Bonner chuckled. “Sure. There was never any question of that. Data was always backed up to three remote units every time it was sent or received. It’s not as efficient, but the company goes on, as even Sir Robert knew it would when he put that erase program in SAINT.”
MacDonald started. “You mean there are three more SAINTs?”
“No, no. Although the Japanese have several that are somewhat SAINT-like, we don’t, and even they lack whatever it was that was added to those circuits by Sir Reginald. But, some day, there’s going to be another SAINT, or even worse. Nothing is more certain than that you can not un-invent something once it’s been invented. Eventually, when we’ve sanitized and rationalized the data as much as possible, we’ll issue a big public report on SAINT’s perversion and madness in the hopes that it will be guarded against in the future, but we can only warn.”
“There aren’t many nuclear power plants any more,” MacDonald pointed out. “It scared too many people.”
“Uh-uh. If you think that, you’re deluding yourself. Nuclear power died because it became too expensive. Fusion remains in small laboratory and prototype units for the same reason. It’s not the same with computers. SAINT was no larger than the average bedroom in a one room apartment. Not too many years ago, to get that kind of power and storage would have filled up half the world with chips and circuits. This is a technology that gets cheaper every day, and all it really takes is time and enough money to put together folks smart enough to build it.”
“Then—it was all for nothing? All of it? The next time it’ll be a dozen SAINTs, or a hundred?”
“Perhaps. We set them back, that’s all, like we always have so far. We took out key leaders and some of the best minds likely to serve that sort of cause, but we didn’t take out the enemy. Violence is down. Random, insane violence is way down, and even the official kind—wars and very violent movements—is back to its old slow bloodletting levels, for the moment. Our own forefathers bought our generation with their blood and their lives. You, Angelique, Bishop Whitely, Lord Frawley, and the others bought the next generation, but they, too, will have to fight or lose. It’s a hell of a system, and lord how it costs, but it’s the way things are run around here and we’re stuck with it.”
The President of Magellan got up and looked like he was preparing to leave. “You know,” he said, “you’ll always be on the payroll. Not much salary, but your expense account is higher than mine. A plane is waiting for me. I have to go. You remember, though—anything you want, anything you need, is no problem. You just tell us. It’s the least we can do.”
“What I want and need is beyond even Magellan’s capacity, I’m afraid,” Mac Donald said sadly.
Bonner stared at him for a moment, then scratched his chin and said, “You can’t be a businessman or a politician, and I’m both, and ever expect a pat hand. Happily ever aftering is for fairy tales. This was more of a—morality play. In a fairy tale, the brave company endures many trials and terrors to fight the dragon holding captive the princess, and when they slay it, finally, the prince and princess go riding off into the sunset. Now the poet sees the struggle as the thing and the fight as really inconsequential. Folks like me look at it and say that if the damned monster was so easily disposed of, he probably wasn’t what he was cracked up to be in the first place. No, the old mythologies, for all their monsters and gods had a much better view of the way the world is run. In them, the fight was as important as the struggle, the threat as horrible as its name, and when the dragon fought it fought well and gave the prince and princess terrible wounds. They kill it, but their wounds are severe and never really heal. There’s always been a high cost to anything worthwhile. Saving the kingdom which could not save itself has to be first priority, but somebody’s got to pay.”
MacDonald looked at him glumly, but said nothing.
“It seems to me that you accept the cost, and by the wounds remember the evil but also remember the accomplishment they bought and paid for. You take what you have left, and you do the best you can, out of respect for those who got you through. Somebody cared enough to make sure that both you and Angelique were so coated with some kind of goo that you managed to survive the heat of the eruption itself. Somebody also got that cross over Angelique’s head when it might have saved them, instead. Seems to me that your lives were bought with an even heavier price. Seems to me you lost sight of that girl in that wheelchair, all paralyzed from neck to toe, who you were attracted to because she wanted to get on with life and do what she could rather than sink into what she couldn’t do. Maybe you ought to think about that.”
MacDonald smiled, and wished he could grab the man’s hand. He was emotionally touched by the speech, which struck at the very heart of his own dark thoughts and fears. Instead, all he said was, “I didn’t know you were a philosopher and a poet, sir. Thanks.”
“I’m not,” replied Bonner, reaching for the door. “I’m a businessman and a politician. I steal only from the very best.” And, with that, he left.
They noted an improvement in his attitude after that, a deep down decision that maybe he did want to live after all. A day later, they sent in Dr. St. Cyr, the King’s Rook in their guerrilla organization inside the company. The Jamaican professor was as kind and strong as always.
“The kinds of medical wizards they have on your case are like no others in the world,” he told MacDonald, “but, like most experts, their bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired. They’ve got psychiatrists and psychologists all over the place, and if you want them they’re available, but it was thought that you just needed some plain talk from somebody you knew.”
“I appreciate that,” responded the man in the plastic case. “All I’ve wanted all along is some plain talk and a little truth, like when I’m going to be out of this thing and out of here.”
St. Cyr sighed. “All right. First, let’s talk injuries. You know some, but I’ll give you the litany.” And a litany it was—of broken bones, severe external burns, weakened and scorched lungs, and the like. “All of those have responded well to treatment, and the artificial skin has taken to you like a glove. It’s bonded so well you’ll never know which is which, and in a few years normal wear and tear will cause it to be unnoticeably replaced with your own. You’ll need exercise and a physiotherapy program, since your muscles are nothing right now, but six months from now you’ll even have all your hair back, at least on your head, or so they tell me. It’s snow white—I can see the fuzz—but it’s growing out rather well.”
He nodded. “And when does this start?”
“Tomorrow, if you’re willing. All things considered, even if we accept the miracle of your survival, you should be horribly crippled and disfigured. You aren’t. With therapy and some time you’ll look and be able to do pretty much what you always did—with one exception.”
He’d known it, but he’d still dreaded it being spoken.
“I know you suspected, but couldn’t tell for sure with all that automatic apparatus clamped on down there. This isn’t easy to say, but the Dark Man took what you thought he took, and it’s still beyond medical science or anything short of what blew in that volcano to restore it to you.”
“I—knew. Doctor Bonner as much as told me.”