Hair Suite

by Piers Anthony

  “So the thing is to decide whether Earth is a black or white stone?” Quiti asked.

  “Yes. The hairs are black, the chips white. Once the color is decided, there is no quarrel. The larger competition will not impact the affairs of the planet, any more than the pebbles on a board affect the material of the board.”

  Quiti was amazed. Levi's knowledge of the interstellar cultures was impressive. How did he know about this, when Roque and Quiti did not? Was he making it up? That did not seem likely; he knew too much about them, and he had not gotten it from them. “Shouldn't this be a matter for the two spheres to work out?” Quiti asked.

  “Indeed. They do wish to work it out. They have agreed to decide by local competition conducted by their representatives.” He nodded meaningfully. “That is to say, us.”

  “We're not looking for any competition,” Quiti repeated. “And we have no directives from any distant Hairpin authority. We're on our own.”

  “Oh, but you do,” Levi said. “Ask your hair.”

  And then Quiti felt the thought of her hair, which seldom manifested as such. Yes, it was true. There needed to be a competition, lest the hair suits lose the planet by default. She checked mentally with Roque and Tillo, and verified it from their hair. The hair knew; it simply had not volunteered the information.

  “You evidently know things about galactic politics that we don't,” Quiti said. “Given the limitations of light speed, so that what you know must be seriously dated, how do you know anything about the contemporary scene?”

  “There are differences between the Hairs and the Chips,” Levi said. “The Hairs have telepathy, as we do not. But we have wormhole communication.”

  “What is that?”

  “You are of course familiar with the concepts of wormholes in space, related to black holes, that may be used to punch through the folds of space to reach other sections. Some are large, swallowing entire stars, but most are smaller, and there are many miniature holes, hardly the diameter of silken threads. Those are the ones we use, as they permeate all parts of galactic space. In effect instant travel, at least for communication.” He smiled. “Perhaps for physical travel also, except for a small problem: no living body that emerges from a wormhole remains alive.”

  “A small problem,” Quiti agreed wryly.

  “So it is limited for the time being to inanimate messages. Unfortunately natural wormholes seem not to have been designed for civilized communication. They wriggle about like the roots of trees, branching out, looping back on themselves, tangling together, so that a message sent from A to B may actually emerge at C, while what arrives at B may have originated at D. More often, a given message reaches the right destination, but may be compromised.”

  “How?”

  “Only part of it may arrive, the rest hopelessly garbled. Or it may seem correct, but be subtly changed so that it can't be entirely trusted.” Levi shrugged. “At any rate, we do receive messages from the home sphere, and they seem to be current. So we do have contemporary information of a sort, we believe. That is what brings us here.”

  “A wormhole message told you to vie with us for the orientation of this planet?”

  “Not exactly. The message, approximately translated, was EMERGENCY! STELLAR THREAT! We did not know what that meant. But when your Hair Embassy was announced, we realized that this must be it.”

  That did seem to make sense. “What kind of competition?” Quiti asked grimly.

  “Friendly, as with local sports,” Levi said. “We do not wish to exterminate our opponents, merely to persuade them to yield the issue. A fair and friendly competition will suffice. Victory will decide the issue. Thereafter this world will be considered to be within the sphere of influence of the victor, and the loser will support that.”

  “And the local Earth authorities will know nothing about it,” Quiti concluded.

  “Correct. They will be satisfied to deal with the decided culture. No need to burden them beyond that.”

  “And just what kind of sporting competition did you have in mind?”

  “That is what we are here to discuss.”

  Quiti shook her head. “We'd have to know a lot more about you before we got into any such thing, if we do, which is doubtful.”

  “Yes, of course. We are prepared to exchange personal histories.”

  Quiti did not need to query Roque and Tillo; they had been in telepathic touch all along. “You and I will exchange, Levi. At the same time Roque and Burn will exchange. Is this satisfactory?”

  “It is. However, remember that we lack your telepathy, which makes direct mental contact difficult. We can clasp hands and communicate with greater authority, but that is not as thorough as your telepathy.”

  “There is a way, according to our hair,” Quiti said, mentally listening to that hair. “We can embrace, and our hair will enclose you and reach your mind. Then there will be full mental contact.”

  Levi glanced at Burn. “Do we wish to share in this manner?” he asked her. “Physical contact of the flesh, such as hand to hand, will enable a limited dialogue that shares only what we wish to share. Their enabled telepathy will have no such restraint. They will fathom our most intimate thoughts, and come to know us as well as we know each other or ourselves. There will be no secrets.”

  “It is, however, a two way street,” Quiti said. “You will know us too.”

  Burn considered briefly. “Roque is handsome,” she said. “I would not mind seducing him.” She did not seem to be joking, and she looked sexy enough to do it. Roque kept a straight face, but Quiti knew he was interested, not having to query him telepathically. Levi had stated the telepathic case correctly; it allowed no withholding. The full gamut of information and emotions would be in play.

  Quiti laughed. “Roque and I have an open marriage. Do your worst.”

  “So be it,” Levi agreed.

  Then Quiti went to Levi, put her arms around him, and her head close to his. Roque did the same with Burn. They did not need to lie down; their standing position was secure.

  “I'll stand guard,” Tillo said.

  Quiti's hair spread out, taking Levi in, first his head, then the rest of his body. The two of them were being cloaked together, in an embrace far more intimate than sex. Indeed, there would be no secrets now. They would each know everything about each other, regardless whether they enjoyed it.

  Ch

  apter 2

  Levi

  Levi was 21 when he fell the first time. It was not a bad fall; his left foot just sort of snagged on the ground and he couldn't recover his balance quick enough, and went down on the pavement. He scuffed one knee and the heel of a hand; apart from that the main damage was to his pride. He was well coordinated; how could he make a stupid misstep like that? Fortunately he hadn't been carrying a pizza at the time.

  He had an interim job delivering pizza to a limited neighborhood: limited by the range he could cover on his bicycle without the pizza getting cold. If it chilled, the pizza was free and the price came out of his pay, and of course there was no tip. He made sure to get there quickly enough, regardless of the weather. He was known in his territory, and the regular customers liked him. Once a sudden rainstorm caught him, and he got soaked, but the pizza was dry and hot. Impressed, the older lady who had ordered it insisted he come in and share it with her. He tried to demur, as it wasn't in the rules, but she promised not to tell and gave him a tip large enough to shut him up, and he was soaking. He showered while she ran his sodden clothing through the dryer. Then he wore her late husband's bathrobe and had a slice, while they chatted about nothing much. He realized that she was desperately lonely and he was like a visiting grandson. It was socially awkward but sort of nice, and he really appreciated the dry clothes. When the rain passed he went out again, and that was the end of it. She died next month, and he was glad that he had given her that coincidental bit of comfort. After that, whenever rain threatened, he thought of her, and hoped she was in Heaven with her husband,
maybe waiting on a pizza delivery.

  He fell again, with no more reason than the first time; his foot simply missed a step by just enough to bring him down. He caught himself, and didn't dump the pizza, but it bothered him. He had always been sure-footed; why were his feet getting careless?

  Then he took a fall on the bicycle, and that was worse. No reason, just misjudgment and inability to recover his balance quickly enough. But it sent the pizza flying, and though the box didn't open it was bruised in its fashion. He apologized to the customer, and she, seeing his battered clothing, forgave him and didn't make a complaint.

  But three times in three months was definitely a bad sign. Now he became aware of numerous lesser missteps that didn't cause falls but still signaled a generalized clumsiness. His hands weren't working quite right either; even tying shoelaces became more of a chore than it should have been. Something was definitely wrong.

  When another fall ruined a pizza, he had to quit before he got fired. He couldn't safely ride the bike any more, for one thing. His folks' insurance covered a doctor visit, but the doctor found nothing wrong. Except that he was savvy enough to look deeper, and authorize further tests.

  Then came the bad news: Levi had an early case of Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy, or CIDP for short. It was a rare auto-immune disease in the same general family as Multiple Sclerosis, (MS) or Lou Gehrig's Disease, but unlike those, there was a treatment for it. Unfortunately, the medicine was expensive, thousands of dollars a treatment, and he would need a treatment every month or so, for life. The insurance did not cover it.

  What it was, in layman's terms, was that the body thought the sheathing around his nerves, the myelin, was an enemy, and attacked it. Thus “demyelinating.” That sheathing was like the insulation around the wires of electronic equipment; when it got taken out, the wires short circuited and the limbs went dead. Then the unused muscles would atrophy. Actually the myelin was more than mere sheathing; it enhanced the power of the signal along the nerve. So its loss was a serious problem. The medication enabled the body to restore the myelin so that the signals from the brain got through to the arms and legs and let a person function normally again. But that lasted only so long, before more was needed. When he fell, it was because his leg was going only about ninety percent of the distance it was supposed to, and sometimes that made too much of a difference. It would get worse, as more of the myelin was lost. He could step carefully, literally watching his step, and get along for a while. But only a while.

  So what was the fate of those who couldn't afford the ruinous cost of treatment? They were on their own, in America, the land of no universal medical coverage. They would slowly decline until they could neither walk nor move their arms. Their brains would be fine, but their bodies not so much. Eventually they would wither and die.

  This was Levi's prospect. Confined to a wheelchair he could not wheel himself, because his arms were becoming as useless as his legs. He would have to be fed by others, set on the pot by others, and put down to sleep by others. He wasn't there yet, but the progression was implacable. It was his destiny. About all he could do was sit and watch TV, for the rest of his awkward life.

  He went through the stages of the realization of coming death: Denial, Anger, Bargaining with God (awkward, because his belief in God was weak), Depression, and Acceptance. Nothing made any difference. Certainly God did not intervene. He considered suicide, but lacked the means to do it comfortably, and no one would help him. He couldn't even throw himself over a cliff, because he couldn't get to a cliff, or throw himself if he did. He couldn't take poison because it was literally out of reach. He couldn't off himself with a bullet to the head, because there was no gun in the house and in any event he would be unable to pull the trigger. He couldn't starve himself; his eating was controlled by others. He was helpless even to end it.

  So what was left except acceptance? It wasn't as if he had a choice. At least they gave him pills to alleviate the stress. So he sat there watching TV and snoozing, waiting for the oblivion that would eventually overtake him like a stalking demon.

  And he dreamed. Something flew up to him, maybe a mini-drone. It buzzed like a bee, but it wasn't alive. It was a sort of metallic worm, flying without wings. It came up to him and settled on his flaccid hand.

  COMMUNICATION it said, not exactly verbally. It was a message that somehow traveled through his flesh to reach his brain, where it was interpreted into the concept.

  “Huh?” he asked surprised. He could still speak, because the demyelination had not progressed to the muscles of his mouth, though eventually it might get there if he didn't die first.

  I AM IN NEED.

  He grimaced, something he still could do. “So am I, pal.”

  DO YOU ACCEDE?

  “Accede to what?”

  TO BECOMING MY HOST.

  “What, like malaria? Why should I want that?”

  FAR MORE POSITIVE. I CAN CURE YOUR CONDITION. BUT YOU MUST SERVE MY INTEREST.

  So it was a dream. What the hell. “Sure, it's a deal.”

  The worm buzzed up to his face, then to his right ear. It nudged inside, like a hearing aid. There was no pain, no discomfort; it merely wriggled in like an eel, distending the canal slightly. I AM IN.

  “What now?”

  IT WILL REQUIRE ABOUT TWENTY OF YOUR DAYS FOR ME TO DELIVER THE FULL CONTINGENT.

  Dream or not, Eli was getting impatient. “Can you stop talking in capitals? I hear you just fine.”

  “Is this better?” It seemed to be a human voice from in front of him, though there was no one there.

  “Much better. Who are you?”

  “I have no individual identity; I am merely an alien chip of instructions, identical to any other. My identity will be yours.”

  “Nuh-uh! I am Levi. You are something else. Suppose I call you Chip?”

  “As you prefer.”

  “You mentioned curing my condition. That has to mean my CIDP. Did you mean it, or was it just a come-on to get my attention?”

  “I am working on it now. It is a matter of correcting your immune system to properly recognize your myelin as being legitimate, and to leave it alone. I have issued the directive, but it will take time for it to reach the last outposts.”

  Levi feared he was being stalled. “How long?”

  “About an hour.”

  Could this be true? “Then I'll be cured?”

  “Yes. However it will take time to restore the lost myelin. That is naturally a careful process. You will gain strength, and should be fully physically operational by the time you possess the full contingent.”

  “This contingent: exactly what is it?”

  “It is a complex of para-normal abilities. The ability to calculate at genius level, to become physically invulnerable, to levitate--”

  “Do you mean to fly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I going to sprout wings?”

  “That would be difficult. You will use magnetic repulsion. But it will require time to master its control.”

  Levi remained skeptical, yet desperately hopeful. “Can you demonstrate your ability in some immediate manner? I would like to believe in you, but mere promises of future performance are not enough.”

  “I have little physical power of my own, and that was running low, which is why I had to gamble on you as a host. However, if you lend me some of your strength, I could perform a very small act of telekinesis.”

  “I have no strength! That's why I'm stuck in this wheelchair.”

  “You have mental strength. Allow me to draw on that.”

  “Okay.” Levi looked ahead. “There's a loose paperclip on the TV stand. Can you move that?”

  “Yes. But my draw on your mental power may be uncomfortable. Later, when your power has expanded, it will be easy, but this is not the same.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  Then something strange happened to his mind. It was as though his thoughts were being siphoned by a mental
vacuum and shaped into another configuration. It was not physically uncomfortable, but somewhat alarming mentally.

  The paperclip lifted off the TV stand and hovered in the air, slowly spinning. Then it came toward him. It landed on the back of his flaccid left hand.

  The vacuum eased. Levi's mind returned to him.

  He lifted his other hand to reach for the paperclip, to confirm its reality. He could still move his hands, when he concentrated, but they were unreliable, so he did little with them. His right hand jerked up too high, then dropped, then steadied. It had more power than was usual for the stage of his ailment. “The myelin! It's returning!”

  “Not significantly, yet. What has changed is the destruction. Your body is starting to perform better because it is no longer being depleted.”

  He picked up the paperclip. It was real, not an illusion.

  Levi shook his head, also with more vigor than anticipated. “As dreams go, this is a good one.”

  “This is not a dream,” Chip said. “It is a demonstration.”

  “If it's a dream, I'll wake soon.”

  “Perhaps you should sleep now, as this will enable your brain to better reorganize while I feed it the new directives. You will perform better when you wake.”

  “Why not?” Levi agreed. “But I can't always sleep when I want to.”

  “You can now,” Chip said.

  “Levi! Time for lunch.” It was his sixteen year old sister Lorna, complete with bowl and spoon. She was a thin brunette who adored him and was glad to help him in his malaise.

  He looked around. “How long was I asleep?”

  “Two hours. I never saw you sleep so sound. I was almost afraid--” She broke off, not wanting to be negative to his face.

  “Lorna, what do I have in my hand?”

  She looked. “A paperclip? How did you get that?”

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Not very well. You know that. I'm a blabbermouth.”

  She was overstating the case. “This is important. I dreamed something, only maybe it wasn't a dream. But if it wasn't, I'd like you to keep quiet about it, for now.”