“Then won’t my adviser be suspicious when I do the slowdown? He must have heard about those others.”
“Yes,” King said, “but there are legitimate slowdowns, when a member’s need for depressants has lessened, so if you do the job convincingly you’ll get away with it. It’s the urge to confess that you have to worry about.”
“Keep telling yourself”—it was Lilac speaking—“that it’s a chemical that’s making you think you’re sick and in need of help, a chemical that was infused into you without your consent.”
“My consent?” Chip said.
“Yes,” she said. “Your body is yours, not Uni’s.”
“Whether you’ll confess or hold out,” King said, “depends on how strong your mind’s resistance is to chemical alteration, and there’s not much you can do about it one way or the other. On the basis of what we know of you, I’d say you have a good chance.”
They gave him some more pointers on slowdown technique—to skip his midday cake once or twice, to go to bed before the last chime—and then King suggested that Snowflake take him back to where they had met. “I hope we’ll be seeing you again, Chip,” he said. “Without the bandage.”
“I hope so,” Chip said. He stood and pushed back his chair. “Good luck,” Hush said; Sparrow and Leopard said it too. Lilac said it last: “Good luck, Chip.”
“What happens,” he asked, “if I resist the urge to confess?”
“We’ll know,” King said, “and one of us will get in touch with you about ten days after the treatment.”
“How will you know?”
“We’ll know.”
His arm was taken by Snowflake’s hand. “All right,” he said. “Thank you, all of you.”
They said “Don’t mention it,” and “You’re welcome, Chip,” and “Glad to be of help.” Something sounded strange, and then—as Snowflake led him from the room—he realized what it was: the not-being-said of “Thank Uni.”
They walked slowly, Snowflake holding his arm not like a nurse but like a girl walking with her first boyfriend.
“It’s hard to believe,” he said, “that what I can feel now and see now—isn’t all there is.”
“It isn’t,” she said. “Not even half. You’ll find out.”
“I hope so.”
“You will. I’m sure of it.”
He smiled and said, “Were you sure about those two who tried and didn’t make it?”
“No,” she said. Then, “Yes, I was sure of one, but not of the other.”
“What’s step two?” he asked.
“First get through step one.”
“Are there more than two?”
“No. Two, if it works, gets you a major reduction. That’s when you really come alive. And speaking of steps, there are three right ahead of us, going up.”
They went up the three steps and walked on. They were back in the plaza. It was perfectly silent, with even the breeze gone.
“The fucking’s the best part,” Snowflake said. “It gets much better, much more intense and exciting, and you’ll be able to do it almost every night.”
“It’s incredible.”
“And please remember,” she said, “that I’m the one who found you. If I catch you even looking at Sparrow I’ll kill you.”
Chip started, and told himself not to be foolish.
“Excuse me,” she said; “I’ll act aggressively toward you. Maxi-aggressively.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m not shocked.”
“Not much.”
“What about Lilac?” he said. “May I look at her?”
“All you want; she loves King.”
“Oh?”
“With a pre-U passion. He’s the one who started the group; first her, then Leopard and Hush, then me, then Sparrow.”
Their footsteps became louder and resonant. She stopped him. “We’re here,” she said. He felt her fingers picking at the side of the bandage; he lowered his head. She began unwinding, peeling bandage from margins of skin that turned instantly cool. She unwound more and more and finally took the cotton from his eyes. He blinked them and stretched them wide.
She was close to him and moonlit, looking at him in a way that seemed challenging while she thrust bandage into her medicenter coveralls. Somehow she had got her pale mask back on—but it wasn’t a mask, he saw with a shock; it was her face. She was light. Lighter than any member he had ever seen, except a few near-sixty ones. She was almost white. Almost as white as snow.
“Mask neatly in place,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“That’s all right,” she said, and smiled. “We’re all odd in one way or another. Look at that eye.” She was thirty-five or so, sharp-featured and intelligent-looking, her hair freshly clipped.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“I said it’s all right.”
“Are you supposed to let me see what you look like?”
“I’ll tell you something,” she said. “If you don’t come through I don’t give a fight if the whole bunch of us get normalized. In fact, I think I’d prefer it.” She took his head in both hands and kissed him, her tongue prying at his lips. It slid in and flickered in his mouth. She held his head tight, pushed her groin against his, and rubbed circularly. He felt a responsive stiffening and put his hands to her back. He worked his tongue tentatively against hers.
She withdrew her mouth. “Considering that it’s the middle of the week,” she said, “I’m encouraged.”
“Christ, Marx, Wood, and Wei,” he said. “Is that how you all kiss?”
“Only me, brother,” she said, “only me.”
They did it again.
“Go on home now,” she said. “Don’t touch scanners.”
He backed away from her. “I’ll see you next month,” he said.
“You fighting well better had,” she said. “Good luck.”
He went out into the plaza and headed toward the Institute. He looked back once. There was only empty passageway between the blank moon-white buildings.
2
BOB RO, seated behind his desk, looked up and smiled. “You’re late,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” Chip said. He sat down.
Bob closed a white folder with a red file tab on it. “How are you?” he asked.
“Fine,” Chip said.
“Have a good week?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Bob studied him for a moment, his elbow on his chair arm, his fingers rubbing the side of his nose. “Anything in particular you want to talk about?” he asked.
Chip was silent, and then shook his head. “No,” he said.
“I hear you spent half of yesterday afternoon doing somebody else’s work.”
Chip nodded. “I took a sample from the wrong section of the IC box,” he said.
“I see,” Bob said, and smiled and grunted.
Chip looked questioningly at him.
“Joke,” Bob said. “IC, I see.”
“Oh,” Chip said, and smiled.
Bob propped his jaw on his hand, the side of a finger lying against his lips. “What happened Friday?” he asked.
“Friday?”
“Something about using the wrong microscope.”
Chip looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh,” he said. “Yes. I didn’t really use it. I just went into the chamber. I didn’t change any of the settings.”
Bob said, “It looks like it wasn’t such a good week.”
“No, I guess it wasn’t,” Chip said.
“Peace SK says you had trouble Saturday night.”
“Trouble?”
“Sexually.”
Chip shook his head. “I didn’t have any trouble,” he said. “I just wasn’t in the mood, that’s all.”
“She says you tried and couldn’t erect.”