Sight of Proteus

by Charles Sheffield

  "It was a lousy time for it to happen, Bey. Now the whole thing will be a pain to follow up. We'll have to call Central Hospital and ask for a new check on the liver transplant ID. They won't like that, but if we reach Doctor Morris in the Transplant Department he'll probably arrange to do it for us."

  "Tonight?"

  "No." Larsen looked apologetic. "It can't be done. It's almost eleven now, and Morris works the day shift. We won't get any action until tomorrow. The best I can do is call and leave a stored request for the morning."

  He sat down at the video link and prepared to call the hospital, then paused. "Unless you want to go over in the morning and check it in person? We'd actually get faster action that way."

  Wolf shrugged. "Might as well. Tonight's shot anyway. Let's leave it all until tomorrow."

  Larsen was still apologetic. "It must have been a million to one chance, losing the record we wanted like that."

  "More than that, John. The scratch record is copied into a master file, soon after entry, so that there's always a back-up copy. The accident must have happened before they could get the copy for permanent storage. I've never even heard of such a thing before—it must be a one in a billion rarity, maybe one in a trillion."

  He wore a thoughtful and dissatisfied expression as they went together into the still-crowded streets.

  "I've had no dinner, and I broke a date to follow through on this thing," said Larsen. "Do you know, I haven't been outside the office for a minute since I arrived this morning. What's new on the slideways?"

  Wolf looked amused. "If you mean women, as you usually do, I wasn't looking too much on the way over. I saw a couple of new ones this afternoon, though—styles straight from old Persia. Fantastic eyes. It would be nice if they caught on and came into fashion."

  They merged into the slidewalkers. Like most members of Form Control, Wolf and Larsen were wearing simple forms, close to those given by Nature. Years of form-change training, reinforced by the chilling exposure to the outlawed forms, made form-change for pleasure or entertainment a doubtful attraction to them. It took an intriguing form indeed to tempt them to experiment. The biofeedback machines in the Office of Form Control were used for work and for health, almost never for cosmetics. Before Bey went to bed he took a short program on his own equipment for his myopia, and resolved to take a more complete physical overhaul—tomorrow.

  Chapter 3

  The meeting was running well over its scheduled one hour. That happened often. Every year the list of petitioners grew longer, and every year the committee had to weigh more factors in deciding the new legal forms.

  Robert Capman, committee chairman, looked at his watch and called the meeting again to order.

  "We're late, ladies and gentlemen. This must be our final decision for today. Turn, if you please, to the description of the twentieth petition. Perhaps I can summarize it for you in the interests of speed.

  "The basic form is mammalian aquatic. You will see that fourteen variations are also being applied for in simultaneous petition. The developer of the forms points out that one of these variations has a life-ratio a little better than one—about 1.02, to be more precise. This could translate to an extension of a couple of years on a user's life span. BEC has already stated that they would be willing to handle this form and all its variations as Type I Programs, fully certified and supported by BEC warranties. Could I now have your comments, please."

  Capman paused. He had the gift—part instinct, part experience—that allowed him to control the pace of the meeting completely. There was a stir at the far end of the long table.

  "Yes, Professor Richter. You have a comment?"

  Richter cleared his throat. He was a lean, fastidious man with a neat black beard. "A question, really. I notice that the basic form can supposedly be reached with less than two hundred hours of machine interaction. I know that the main external change, apart from the skin and eyes, is just the addition of gills to the human form, but that interaction time seems to me to be too little. I question its accuracy."

  Capman smiled and nodded. "An excellent point, Jacob. I had the same thought myself when I re-read this petition."

  Richter warmed to the praise in Capman's voice.

  "However," continued Capman, "I now believe that the statement is accurate. This petitioner seems to have achieved a real break-through. As you know, a form is usually reached with less effort when it corresponds to one somewhere in our own genetic history."

  Richter nodded vigorously. "Indeed, yes. I have always thought that to be the reason why the avian forms have proved so difficult to realize. Are you suggesting that the petitioner has developed a form that relates to our own descent?"

  "I believe so. He has contributed to the present science of metamorphosis and also given us a new insight into our own evolutionary background."

  There was a stir of excitement around the table. Capman rarely offered personal comment on a petition. He left it to the committee to make their own evaluation and recommendation. His praise carried weight. The approval for the use of the new form was swiftly given and the ecstatic petitioner received the formal congratulations of the committee.

  He left in a blissful daze—with good reason. Adoption of his forms by BEC as Type I Programs made him an instant millionaire, in either Earth riyals or in USF new dollars.

  As soon as he had gone, Capman called the meeting once more to order.

  "That concludes the consideration of petitions for today. There is, however, still one extraordinary item of business that I want to bring to your attention before we leave. We cannot resolve it now, but I urge you to think about it in the weeks until our next meeting."

  He motioned to one of the Minutes Secretaries, who handed him a pile of thin folders, which he distributed to the committee members.

  "These contain some details of an unusual petition request that we received last week. It has not been through the conventional screening process, because after a quick look at it I judged that we should consider it directly in this committee. It has a life-ratio close to 1.3."

  There was a sudden hush. Committee members who had been straightening their papers before leaving stopped, and gave Capman their full attention.

  "The petitioner does not emphasize this," went on Capman, "but the extensive use of this form could increase the average life expectancy to almost one and a half centuries. The appearance of the form is outwardly normal. The changes are mainly in the medulla oblongata and the endocrine glands."

  At the far end of the table, Richter had again raised his hand.

  "Mister Chairman, I urge great caution in discussing this form anywhere outside this committee. We all can guess the public reaction if people see a chance to increase their life spans by thirty percent. It would be chaos."

  Capman nodded. "That was going to be my next point. There is still another reason why this form must be handled with special care. As many of you may know, I also serve as consultant and technical advisor to the General Coordinators. It is in that role that I am most worried by this petition. The widespread use of any form with a life-ratio this high could eventually push the population of Earth up above twenty billion. We could not support such a level. If Dolmetsch is correct, we are already crowding close to the absolute limit of population stability."

  He closed his notebook.

  "On the other hand, I'm not sure that we have the right to suppress any petition for such arguments. The petitioner presumably knows his legal rights. I would like to get your opinion on this next month, after you have all had time to think about it.

  "The meeting is now adjourned."

  He smiled his thanks at the participants, gathered his papers, and hurried from the room. After the other committee members had also left, the Minutes Secretaries remained to clear up and compare notes. The junior of the two skipped through his recording, then compared it with the written transcript.

  "I show one clean acceptance," he said, "two conditional acceptances s
ubject to further tests, two more to be continued with sponsored research grants. If my count is right, that leaves us fifteen outright rejections."

  "Check. Funny, isn't it, how the percentages seem to run about the same each time, no matter what the petitions are?" The blonde girl tried an experimental flutter of her eyelashes and a pout of the lips. Getting the form of the Marilyn variations was fairly easy, as far as the outward shape was concerned, but the mannerisms took lots of practice. "There, how was that?"

  "Not too bad. You're improving, but you're not there yet. I'll let you know when you have it perfect. Look, do you think we should make any special notes on the rejected forms? There's at least one that might be worth a comment."

  "I know. The petitioner who tried to develop the wheeled form? I don't know what we could put in the transcripts. 'Widespread and ill-concealed laughter from the Committee Members'? They had a hard time controlling themselves, the way he was hopping and rolling all over the room. It's probably better to say nothing. I wonder why somebody would go to all that trouble to make a complete fool of himself."

  "Come on, Gina, we both know why."

  "Oh, I guess you're right. Money will always do it."

  Of course.

  . . . would you like to be rich, really rich? Then why not develop a new form to catch the public fancy? You will get a royalty from every single user . . .

  Sounds easy? Not really—all the simple forms were explored long ago. The change specialists are driven all the time to more exotic and difficult variations. Whatever you come up with will have to pass the stringent requirements of the petition board. One in a million hits the jackpot.

  . . . BEC will sell you a low-cost experimental package. Includes everything that you need to create your very own form-change program . . .

  True. But now read the fine print.

  . . . BEC takes no responsibility for reduced life expectancy or unstable physical-mental feedback resulting from form-change experiments made with BEC equipment . . .

  Of course, if you are that one in a million, lucky and clever enough to hit on a really successful form, it will have to be sold through BEC. Your royalty is factored into their prices. Lucky BEC.

  It is interesting to look at a few statistics. Licensed form-change experimenters: one-and-a-half million. Living millionaires from new form inventions: one hundred and forty-six. Deaths per year directly attributed to form-change experiments: seventy-eight thousand.

  Form-change experiment is a risky business.

  The Minutes Secretaries didn't realize it, but in the final petition board they saw only the cream of the crop—the ones that could still walk and talk. Less than one in fifty made it to the board. Many of the failures finished in the organ banks.

  "We should include a summary on the humanity-test proposal, Gina."

  "I guess so. I sketched out a short statement while they were still debating it. How about this? 'The proposal that the humanity test could be conducted at two months instead of three months was tabled pending further test results.' "

  "I think it needs a bit more detail than that. Doctor Capman pointed out what an argument the present humanity test caused among the religious groups when it was first introduced. BEC had to show success in a hundred thousand test cases, before the Council would approve it."

  He skimmed rapidly through the record. "Here, why don't we simply use this quote, verbatim, from Capman's remarks? 'The humanity tests remain controversial. Unless an equally large sample is analyzed now, showing that the two and three month test results are identical, the proposal cannot be forwarded for consideration.' "

  They were both much too young to remember the great humanity debates. What is a human? The answer had evolved slowly and taken many years to articulate clearly, but it was simple enough: an entity is human if and only if it can accomplish purposive form-change using the bio-feedback systems. The definition had prevailed over the anguished weeping of millions—billions—of protesting parents.

  The age of testing had been slowly pushed back, to one year, to six months, to three months. If BEC could prove its case, the age would soon be two months. Failure in the test carried a high penalty—euthanasia—but resistance had slowly faded before remorseless population pressure. Resources to feed babies who could never live a normal human life were simply not available. The banks never lacked for infant organs.

  Gina had locked her recorder. She pushed back her blonde hair with a rounded forearm and threw a smoldering look at her companion.

  "Still not quite right," he said critically. "You should droop your eyelids a bit more, and get a better pout on that lower lip."

  "Damn. It's hard. How will I know when I'm getting it right?"

  He picked up his recorder. "Don't worry. I told you before, you'll know from my reaction."

  "You know, I ought to try it on Doctor Capman—he'd be the ultimate test, don't you think?"

  "Impossible, I would have said. You know he only lives for his work. I don't think he has more than two minutes a day left over from that. But look"—only half joking—"if the hormones are running too high in that form, I might be able to help you out."

  Gina's response was not included in the conventional Marilyn data base.

  * * *

  The tell-tales on the experiment stations glowed softly. The only sounds were the steady hum of air and nutrient circulators and the click of the pressure valves inside the tanks. Seated at the control console, the lonely figure looked again at the records of experiment status.

  It had been necessary to abort the failure on the eleventh station—again the pain, the loss of an old friend. How many more? Fortunately, the replacement was doing very well. Perhaps he was getting closer, perhaps the dream of half a century could be achieved.

  He had not chosen his outward form lightly. It was fitting that the greatest scientist of the twenty-second century should pay homage to the giant of the twentieth. But how had his idol borne the guilt of Hiroshima, of Nagasaki? For that secret, he would have given a great deal.

  Chapter 4

  The unexpected loss of the data set containing the unknown liver ID had nagged all night like a subliminad. By the time Bey Wolf reached the Form Control offices his perplexity was showing visibly on his face. As they set off together for Central Hospital, Larsen mistook Wolf's facial expression for irritation at being called out on a wasted mission the previous night.

  "Just another hour or two. Bey," he said, "then we'll have direct evidence."

  Wolf was thoughtful for a moment, chewing at his lip.

  "Maybe, John," he said at last. "But don't count on it. I don't know why it is, but it seems that whenever I get involved in a really interesting case, something comes along and knocks it away. You remember how it was on the Pleasure Dome case."

  Larsen nodded without comment. That had been a tough one, and both men had come close to resigning over it. Illegal form-changes were being carried out in Antarctica, as titillation for the jaded sexual appetites of top political figures. Starting from a segment of ophidian skin picked up in Madrid, Wolf and Larsen had followed the trail little by little and had been close to the final revelation when they had suddenly been called off the case by the central office. The whole thing had been hushed up and left to cool. There must have been some very important players in that particular game.

  While the slideways transported them towards the hospital, both men gradually became more subdued. It was a natural response to their surroundings. As the blue glaze of the newer city's shielded walls became less common, the buildings seemed drab and shabby. The inhabitants moved more furtively, the dirt and the refuse became noticeable. Central Hospital stood at the very edge of Old City, where wealth and success handed over to poverty and failure. Much of the world could not afford the BEC programs and equipment. In the depths of Old City, the old forms of humanity lived side-by-side with the worst surviving failures of the form-change experiments.

  The bulk of the hospital loomed at l
ast before them. Very old, built of grey stone, it stood like a massive fortress protecting the new city from Old City. Inside it, the first BEC developments had been given their practical tests—long ago, before the Fall of India, but the importance of the hospital's work lived on, deep in human memory. All moves to tear it down and replace it with a modern structure had failed. Now it seemed almost a monument to the progress of form-change.

  Inside the main lobby, the two men paused and looked about them. The hospital ran with the frantic pace and total organization of an ants' nest. The status displays in front of the receptionist flickered all the colors of the rainbow, constantly, like the consoles of a spaceport control center.

  The young man seated at the controls seemed able to ignore it completely. He was deep in a thick, blue-bound book, his consoles set for audio interrupt should attention be needed. He looked up only when Wolf and Larsen were standing directly in front of him.

  "You need assistance?" he asked.

  Wolf nodded, then looked at him closely. The face, now that it was no longer turned down to the pages of the book, looked suddenly familiar—oddly familiar, but in an impersonal way. Bey felt as though he had seen him on a holograph, without ever seeing the man in person.

  "We should have an appointment with Doctor Morris of the Transplant Department," said Larsen. "I called him first thing this morning to arrange some ID tests. He told us to come at ten, but we are a little early."

  While Larsen was speaking, Wolf had managed to get a closer look at the book sitting on the desk in front of them. It had been a while since he had seen anyone working from an actual, bound volume. He looked at the open pages; very old, from the overall appearance, and probably made of processed wood pulp. Bey read the title word by word, with some difficulty since the page was upside down; 'The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus', by Christopher Marlowe. Suddenly, he was able to complete the connection. He looked again at the man behind the desk, who had picked up a location director, keyed it on, and handed it to Larsen.