“Mr. Ho, I can’t promise that. The Security Division comes from the Auditor Corps, and they go to a great deal of trouble to train and educate their workers.”
“Ask them if they’d like me to shut them out completely the way I’m shutting out Dr. Hoskides. Come to think of it, I want Carwell appointed my personal physician and put on the payroll, too.”
“I’ll put the request in, Mr. Ho. Now—”
“I’m not through. I want the most complete library unit made available to me—”
“We already have one here.”
“Good. And from time to time I’m going to want to talk to experts in various fields. One more thing. You remember earlier I mentioned wanting to talk to a Miss Maea Tornoy, a temporal sociologist—the woman we ran into in Hong Kong—”
“She’s already here.”
“Oh, really?” Ett paused.
“Send her in then. No—” Ett made an effort and sat on the edge of the bed; made a further effort and stood up—“wait a minute, I’d better get dressed first.”
“I’ll send her to you when you’re ready, Mr. Ho,“ said Rico. ”You’ll find clothes that fit you in the closet there. May I ask one thing, though? Are you planning on leaving this island again in the next twenty-four hours?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Thank you. Then I can order the staff accordingly. Good morning.” Rico turned toward the door, and this time he crossed gazes with Alaric. “Good morning, Mr. Amundssen.”
“Al,” said Al.
“Good morning, Al.”
“Morning,” said Al, as Rico went out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He watched the door close before turning back to Ett. “Actually, it’s just about noon.”
“Time to move,” said Ett, going to the closet and opening it. “I’ll get dressed. Have you been around the island? Where’s a good place to sit down and talk with someone?”
“There’s a terrace looking down a slope to the boat dock,” said Al. “I’ll show you.”
Fifteen minutes later, sitting on a white-painted wrought-iron chair on the flagstone terrace, overlooking a low stone wall and a lawn falling away to what was more like a small marina than a simple dock, Ett glanced up to see Al bringing in Maea Tornoy. He stood up.
“Ett,” she said, as they faced each other once more. “It’s good to see you again. I’ve been wanting to apologize for the way it sounded when I mentioned Wally.”
After the startling loveliness of Cele Partner, Maea’s appearance was not breathtaking—but then, someone like Cele was almost unreal. In her own fashion, Maea had beauty enough. And where Cele had been in her element in the glittering high society of the Milan Tower, Maea was in hers in the sunlight of the terrace. Her hair was long and auburn, shading to red. She was relatively tall, like Cele, but more strongly boned, so that she moved with the odd sort of angular grace seen sometimes in adolescent girls or in very athletic women. In a peculiar way, she was more female and real than Cele, who had a touch of the occult about her, like a figure that had stepped out of a painting.
“Maybe we can talk about Wally a little later,” said Ett as they sat down. “Right now, I’m too wound up in adjusting to being an R-Master. If you can help me with that first, I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course,” she said. “What can I do?”
“Tell me something about what your specialty covers,” he said. “I know temporal sociology deals with the development and change in human institutions. But you specialize in making forecasts, don’t you, of the changes that’ll take place if a community, or a city, puts a particular alteration or development into effect?”
“That’s my particular specialty,” Maea said. “A temporal sociologist can be involved in any aspect of changing human conditions. It’s like being a psychologist—the name covers so many specialties it doesn’t mean anything by itself. Like saying someone’s an engineer. Unless you specify what kind of engineer, she could be anything.”
“All right,” said Ett. “What I want from you is a quick survey, or directions from you on how to make a quick survey, of changes since RIV was first invented.”
“It wasn’t invented, really. They were looking for something like it, it’s true, but it was actually an accidental discovery, like penicillin.”
“Whatever,” Ett said.
“There’s no problem in that,” Maea said. “Your secretary says you’ve got a full-scale library machine here. I can program a course of references for you that will give you a running picture of change from any time to the present. But you’ll have to tell me what you’re after. General technological development? Development of human emotional patterns? Political developments?”
“I want to know,” said Ett, “how much influence RIV, in both its failures and its successes, like me, has had on the general direction society has taken since, say, the year 2000.”
“All right. Next question. How extensive a survey do you want to make? I mean, how much studying do you want to do?”
“Give me something I can go through in a day or so, say the equivalent of four or five ordinary-size book-length references.”
“All right.” She looked at him keenly and a little questioningly. Her face was rounded, and a light dusting of freckles showed across her nose like ghosts of childhood under the golden tan of her skin. “I’ll get busy then.”
She stood up. He stood up with her.
“As soon as I’ve had a chance to go through the references, we’ll talk some more,” he said. “I didn’t pull you away from some particularly important job to get you here, did I? I’m sorry if I did.”
“No,” she said. “As it happened, I was between jobs.”
She turned and went off, through the door from the terrace, back into the house, drawing his gaze after her.
Ett turned back to the lawn and sat down again. During his talk with Maea the adrenaline surge had begun in him, and he felt almost normal. He reached out to the little table beside his chair and pressed the phone stud.
“Rico?” he said.
There was a moment’s pause; then Rico’s voice answered.
“Yes, Mr. Ho.”
“Bring out a terminal to that library machine, will you? I might as well work here as any place else. Oh, and see if you can find Dr. Carwell and have him step out here and speak to me for a moment.”
“Yes, Mr. Ho.”
A few minutes later Rico showed up, followed by a man pushing a reading screen library terminal along on a table-height grav float. They left, and a few minutes after that Morgan Carwell appeared.
“Just a quick question or two,” Ett said to the big physician. “How did I act while I was unconscious—I mean, between the time I collapsed as I was returning to the clinic, and when I woke up in that bedroom with the old-fashioned furniture?”
“I wasn’t with you for most of that time,” said Carwell. “Our clinic chief—you met Dr. Lopayo, you’ll recall—took care of you during those hours. I assumed from what he said that you had the normal reaction.”
“The normal reaction?”
“Why, simply a quiet period of unconsciousness while the shock of the mental change is absorbed—according to the books, that is.”
“Check up,” said Ett. “Find out if I did go according to the books. And,” he said as Carwell turned away, “one other thing. Will you program a short study course for me in RIV, its discovery, its history, and everything else about it?”
“If you like,” said Carwell. “But Dr. Hoskides is much more qualified—”
“Dr. Hoskides is to have nothing to do with this—or with me. Now or in the future,” said Ett.
“Very well,” said Carwell, shrugging. He went off, and Ett turned to the library terminal, typing out his request.
MEN OF GOOD WILL, so-called. Or MOGOW. Any reference or other information under these cues.
Heat—a warmth like that of a fever—was beginning to glow all through him. He felt his thoughts picking up speed
under the powerful thrust of the RIV-induced stimulation. A problem lay before him now, and he hurled himself with increasing speed to engage it, like a lover to a tryst, like a warrior to a battle.
Chapter Nine
For the next four days Ett immersed himself in the references both Maea and Dr. Carwell led him to—as well as those he pursued for himself through the terminal of his library computer. His days passed quickly as he lost himself in his work, flooded by the adrenaline-like highs that alone gave him relief from the bodily discomforts that plagued him. And when he could do no more, he staggered to his bed, foggy of mind and half-blind with fatigue and aches, to lie still as a log or thrash wildly about, in alternation.
Al was always a quiet, watching presence, somewhere nearby, always the last face Ett saw as his consciousness faded out in the dark and the fatigue, and the first one Ett saw as he awoke, still tired and sick, in the new morning. Rico was there on the perimeter of his world, too—it was Rico who got him what he needed when he asked, and sometimes—as with food—when he did not ask, but forgot.
Several times Ett sent for Maea Tornoy, spending segments of precious time talking with her about her profession and the things she’d learned from it—and, later, about other professions and the world. His talks with her were strange and fragmented, and could not really be described as conversations; they were much more like interrogations, as he sought scraps of information or theory that had escaped him, but which he knew had to be there, somewhere. The puzzlement that was in her face almost constantly now he ignored, although he noted its presence, and that it was often alloyed with some other emotion, very akin to concern. But he had no time to speculate on what he saw, with the drive of his intellectual involvement rushing him on.
Maea always seemed to want to talk with him for a longer period of time; always he dismissed her when he was through, abruptly, politely but firmly.
Dr. Carwell’s study program for him on the subject of RIV had been routed to Ett through the library computer, and he avoided the physician until the third day, when he finally sent for him.
“My God, man! You look terrible. Are you all right?” Carwell asked immediately after he’d been ushered into the bedroom Ett was using today. Without waiting for a reply he strode to the wall nearest Ett’s bed, where he pulled down a hinged panel to reveal a recessed medical equipment cabinet. As he began to pull out instruments, Ett stopped him and directed him to sit down.
“But you’re ill! Didn’t you send for me for that?” the physician asked.
“Not at all, doctor. I’m feeling well enough, all things considered. I’ve just been working hard.”
“But haven’t you understood even yet,” Carwell said after a moment, “that you can’t run yourself like this any more? You’re not even going to make it to the ten-year average that R-Masters last, these days… you’re killing yourself! Do you know what you look like?”
Ett grinned.
“Morgan, believe me, I have no intention of killing myself, now or at any time in the future. Don’t let my appearance fool you.”
But the physician insisted on giving Ett a quick examination, and finally Ett let him. After a moment of considering the results he had gotten, Carwell looked up.
“Well, all right,” he said. “I guess you’re not so bad. You still look terrible, but your blood pressure is just where it was before, and your pulse and temperature are fine. You’ve got quite a bit of tension building in your neck and shoulders, though—reaction to the aches and pains, I’d say.”
Ett nodded.
“I’d like to prescribe something for you,” Carwell continued; “and I don’t mean drugs,” he added hastily, lifting a hand as if to hold Ett off. “You should be getting more physical exercise. I strongly recommend a daily work-out under the supervision of your physical therapist, beginning at a half an hour and working up to a full hour within the next week. And top it off with a steam bath and a good course of massage, every day. Will you do that?”
Ett smiled wearily. “All right, doctor. That makes sense. But I’ll be grudging the time.”
Carwell frowned.
“What’s the hurry? You act as if you have some sort of deadline.”
Ett said nothing, and Carwell watched him for a moment; then he began to put his instruments away. When he had finished he nodded and began to walk toward the door.
“Wait, Morgan,” Ett said. “We haven’t gotten to the reason I sent for you.”
The physician turned and stared at Ett questioningly. “You mean there was something else?” he said.
“Yes,” Ett said. “You remember I asked you about what happened with me after I passed out in your Clinic? Have you gotten that information yet?”
Carwell frowned, as if to himself, and paused a moment before responding.
“Well, yes,” he said. “I hadn’t forgotten. But I didn’t get back to you because I wasn’t sure if I had anything to say or not.” He stopped.
“Go on,” Ett said.
“Well,” Carwell said, hesitating—“I contacted Dr. Lopayo, who if you’ll remember handled—”
“I remember.” Ett said. ”Go on.”
“Yes, well… Dr. Lopayo agreed with the impression I gave you earlier, that you were simply normally—uh, unconscious.” He stopped again, looking at Ett. Ett nodded encouragingly.
“Well, it seems to be standard practice to record continuously such R-Master reactions—all the standard sensory data as well as a running view of the patient. For research purposes, you understand.”
Ha paused again, but continued without prodding.
“Dr. Lopayo promised to look up that record and see to it I got a copy. But it hasn’t shown up yet.”
“I see,” Ett said.
After a moment of silence Ett addressed the physician again.
“Morgan, thanks. I appreciate your concern and your help. Please let me know when that record comes in, and what you find on it.” He nodded, and Carwell, understanding dismissal, returned the nod and left the room.
Left to himself, Ett stared at the blank wall for a few moments before reactivating the computer terminal and returning to his work.
***
On the fifth day Alaric came and woke Ett just after dawn, and in the pale lavender light the two of them walked down the hill toward the dock. They went directly over the grass, letting the dew wet their feet through the canvas shoes they wore, rather than along the walkways. Sensitive to the cool breeze, Ett hunched into his windbreaker, thrusting his hands into his pockets and nestling a thermos bottle in the crook of an elbow.
The sun was a red, lopsided ball floating in purple haze just above the horizon as they left the dock in a small sailboat that was part of the island’s equipment. Behind them on the shore there were a few loud curses as figures tried—and failed—to start a speedy motorboat. Ett grinned as Alaric looked exceedingly innocent; neither said a word.
Ett really had no intention of going anywhere in particular, though; nor did he want to badly alienate the security men assigned to protect him. So he kept within sight of the shore, and after an hour or so he noticed a small, sleek craft trying to shadow them discreetly. He put it from his mind and concentrated on the sailing.
After a couple more hours they headed back in and tied up at the dock. They had eaten no breakfast yet beyond the coffee Ett had brought along; so they shared one in the sun on the terrace, making no conversation but enjoying it all. Then Ett returned to his room and napped.
When he stepped out again into the early afternoon sun, he did not call for his library terminal, but instead sent for Rico.
“Yes, Mr. Ho?”
“Rico, we’ve got to do something about these security men who are always hanging around—no, no, listen to me,” Ett said, as Rico had been about to speak.
“I understand they’ve got a job to do; and they do it well,” he continued. “But when they’re always around it throws my concentration off badly. I believe I’ve got the righ
t to order them far away from me altogether, but I don’t want to go that far—do you think they’d be amenable to a compromise?”
Rico nodded. “I’d have to speak to their leader, of course, sir,” he said. “But I think something can be arranged. Might I suggest that we simply ask them to confine themselves to areas away from the immediate compound itself—just the farther grounds, the beaches—ah, and the landing field and staff quarters, too. Would that be acceptable to you, Mr. Ho?”
“That’s more like it,” Ett nodded. “Do that, would you?”
Rico nodded and walked away.
“Oh, and Rico!”
“Sir?”
“As long as we’re about it, how about doing the same for the rest of the staff, too? Let’s make it a rule that whenever I’m about, no one at all, except Al and you, of course, comes anywhere near until they’re asked for. All right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Rico. “I’ll arrange it.”
“Thank you,” said Ett.
***
As he was finishing dinner that evening, Ett punched the phone stud on his table.
“Rico?” he said. “Will you get in touch with Lee Malone for me? Tell him I’d like to come see him this evening.”
“Yes, Mr. Ho.”
In a few minutes Rico stepped from the building onto the terrace on which Ett sat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ho,” he said. “Master Malone says to remind you you were told when you could see him next.”
“I see,” said Ett. He looked up at Rico. “I hate to do this to you, but would you get back to his secretary and—”
“Master Malone has no secretary,” Rico interrupted. “I understand he has once more dismissed the man.”
“You mean he’s answering his phone himself?” Ett asked.
Rico nodded, and Ett thought for a moment.
“Then I’ll talk to him myself,” he said. “Put me through on this phone, would you? Code the number but I’ll hit the activate button myself.”
In a moment the blank screen lit up and the testy old face appeared.
“So it’s you, is it? I said a year—” The voice was old and raspy, and the face looked tired.
The Last Master Page 11
