Alan and I and Mr. Takahara looked at each other embarrassedly. "So when will you let us know?" Alan asked.
"Oh, in a day or two. I just want to take a little time to think it over, that's all."
"Sure. Take all the time you need-but remember, this is one opportunity that isn't going to wait for too long."
"Yes, thank you. I'll keep that in mind." I smiled politely at them both. The subject was closed. In fact, it was dead.
We adjourned to the terrace then, Alan and I and the enigmatic Mr. Takahara. We talked about Derby for a while. The conversation was deliberately casual. Mr. Takahara advanced the theory that the missing robot was hiding on the assembly line. After all, who would look there? I admitted it was an interesting idea. I couldn't think of a better place.
When my mother finally came out to join us, I made my goodbyes and left quickly.
I realized I was humming all the way to the jeep. I felt oddly satisfied. I had a brand-new thought about the worms-and my mother and her boyfriend had solved my other problem too. Resign my commission?
Hell, no!
THIRTY-FOUR
THERE WERE voices in my sleep again.
They dropped out of a hovering pink sky, a wall of brightness-like God-and danced in circles around me. When I looked, they were bunnydogs. When I turned with them, they were men again. We took off our bunnydog suits and danced naked. We were happy there. When I looked at the singing sky, it was a worm.
There was something I wanted to know. I floated up toward the worm, but it sailed away and I couldn't catch it-and the dance was over now. I'd missed it. The herd was breaking up.
I woke up trembling. I knew something.
There weren't words-I had this overwhelming sense that there were connections underneath the world-as if I'd heard the heavenly music, the great chords of reality, and the sound was still reverberating in my soul.
The weird feeling stayed with me all morning. It meant something: I knew it. There was something I had to do-something about that dream-
And maybe too it was another fit of delirium; but when they checked me out at the hospital, my readings came up green. "Forget it, Lieutenant," the doctor said. "You had a bad dream. Considering what you've been through, you're entitled to a few nightmares."
Except, it hadn't been a bad dream. It had been an extraordinarily good one. That was what troubled me so. I wanted to return to it.
I sighed, shrugged, thanked the doctor and headed upstairs to Intensive Care.
This time, Duke was conscious.
They were keeping him in a sterilized environment, so he was still inside a big plastic tent with odd little ventilation tubes and ultraviolet lights plugged into it.
He turned his head to look at me when I came in. His face was starting to look like a face again. But I wondered if plastic surgery would be able to make it look like a human face.
I dropped my gaze embarrassedly. I looked around for a chair, snagged one and pulled it up to the bed. "Hi, Duke-"
He didn't respond. He turned his head back to look at the ceiling. His breathing sounded labored. The shape under the sheets was disturbingly short.
Just to have something to do, I snagged his medi-console off the foot of the bed and studied it.
And then I wished I hadn't.
They'd taken off both his legs and his left arm. Dr. Fletcher's notes said there was too much nerve damage for prostheses. Embarrassedly, I replaced the console. I looked to Duke again. "Uh, they said you were still having trouble talking-so, uh, if you don't want to talk, you don't have to. I'll do the talking-if you want-"
I waited a moment to see what he would do. I couldn't read his expression, so I continued, "-I don't really know where to start. Um, I guess I should tell you that we brought back some truly astonishing videos. They're being examined frame by frame. I've been debriefing almost every day since I was released. We really did discover something. I mean-nobody knows what to make of those bunnydogs.
"One theory is that they're worm-tenders-kind of like tickbirds and crocodiles. Or lieutenants and captains. The bunnydogs handle the paperwork."
He shifted his head slightly to look at me through the plastic.
I wished I knew what was going on inside that skull. What was he feeling?
"Um-the other theory, Duke, is that the bunnydogs are the worm-controllers. We don't think that the bunnies are the intelligent species behind the invasion-although they could be-but we're wondering if perhaps they mightn't be the managers of this phase. Maybe they're some kind of sub-Chtorran intelligence.
"And-um, there's another theory-it's just a thought, nobody's advocating it seriously yet, it's just something to think about-that perhaps we're dealing with several different intelligences, or a compound intelligence. The worms are one part, the bunnies are another, something else is still a third part. What we're trying to do now is figure out how the bunnies and the worms communicate. If we can do that, then maybe we can find some way to ... talk to them and negotiate or sue for peace or something-"
Duke made a rumbling noise in his throat. "I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't get that, Duke."
He turned his head toward me and said it again. I had to strain to make it out. "Bfllshmt," he said.
The meaning was clear.
"Uh, yeah. I think so too. Listen, um-a lot of people have been asking me about you. I heard from the guys in Colorado. They send their best. And Dr. Fletcher says hello too. And-uh, I saw your son-"
Was it my imagination or did his expression harden? He turned his face back to the ceiling.
"I guess it's none of my business, but I think he wants to come and see you, Duke-I mean, he didn't say anything, I just sort of got the idea that he wanted to; he called me and asked how you were. But he didn't want me to say hi for him, so I don't know if I'm messing where I shouldn't. I just... well-"
"Shft fp."
"Huh?"
He didn't repeat it.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I guess I should go."
"Wfft."
"What?"
He struggled to make himself heard. "Wait-" he rasped. "I want... oo t' do smmfing.. . ."
"Anything, Duke!"
"Write 'own. Co' nummer."
"Write down a code number?" I was already fumbling for a pen. "Right. Go ahead, I'm ready."
He cleared his throat, coughed, and began hoarsely reciting digits. He was giving me his personal military code-and password! "Duke-I don't think you should-"
"Shft fp, McCarfy-"
"Yes, sir-"
"I wan'-yoo ge' me... a grenay."
"A... grenade?"
He nodded; the gesture was difficult for him. "Sfuicide grenaye. Ffoice-actifvated. "
"Duke, I don't think-"
"Fmk what you fhink!" he said. He glared at me. This time there was no mistaking his expression, even through the plastic. "I don't want-be helfless-" He was interrupted by a spasm of coughing. It went on for a long moment. I wondered if I should signal for a nurse. No, if he was in real trouble, the medi-console would alert the nurses automatically. Duke caught his breath and continued, "-nft helfless ... against wfrms-"
"Worms? Duke, there are no worms in Oakland-"
Somehow, he managed to turn halfway toward me. He tried to reach for me through the plastic of the sterile tent. His hand looked like a worm claw. "Ge' grenay, Jhm!" he rasped. "I don' wan'-to die-helfless!" There was terror in Duke's eyes.
I studied the code number in my hands. By rights, I should tear it up and forget it. This was insane. Duke wasn't being rational. A suicide grenade in a hospital? Defense against the worms here? "McCarfy-promisf?"
"Duke, I can't do this-"
"Promisf me!" He looked wild. He couldn't hear a refusal.
I nodded. I swallowed hard. "I'll figure ... something out, Duke. I promise."
He seemed to relax then. He sighed and sank back into his pillow.
"Duke-? Sir?"
"Mm?"
"Remember once, I asked wh
o you cleared with-and you said you checked in with the boss upstairs? Do you remember that? Um-have you checked in recently ...?"
"Fmk'ff."
"I didn't get that, Duke. Could you say it again?"
He rolled his head toward me and rasped, "Ghod isf a lie-ge' grenay."
I sat there in silence, wondering what I should do. Should I tell his doctors-or what? I was churning up inside.
Damn it! This was DukeI owed him!
But-this was crazy! Where do you draw the line?
You son of a bitch, I thought. Haven't I got enough guilt already?
THIRTY-FIVE
I PROBABLY should have discussed it with my commanding officer.
Except I hadn't seen her in three weeks.
But she'd assigned me a terminal in the Science Section, so I knew she hadn't forgotten me. I guessed she wanted me to catch up on my paperwork.
There was a note from Danny Anderson thanking me for keeping him posted on Duke. I wondered if I should tell him about his father's request and decided not to. This was something I was going to have to handle myself.
And there was a letter from Dinnie, that nurse in Denver, asking me how I was doing and if I'd heard from Ted recently. No, I hadn't.
General Poole had sent me a congratulatory note. I'd been awarded a Silver Star. I wondered if I was supposed to send him a thank-you note. I decided to play it safe and did.
Dr. Fletcher had forwarded me a copy of her section's schedule. She'd highlighted the session on "Gastropede Communication." That was only an hour from now. Obviously, she meant that as an invitation.
And-new orders from my colonel! A search and devour mission. Two lobsters! Nineteen hundred hours. Jack London Square. I logged my confirmation with a grin. She hadn't forgotten!
And one last item. The paymaster had authorized the bounty check for the worm I'd flash-frozen from the chopper. One million caseys. I stared at the display screen for a long moment. I really was going to have to do something about all those credits. Nobody had ever told me I was going to get rich in the United States Army. Maybe Alan Wise should join the Special Forces.
Nah.
The only position he was qualified to fill was bait. But the money worried me.
It was too much.
According to the newspapers, the economy was in dreadful shape. Everybody said so-and they had the numbers to prove it. All I knew was that the President had committed to getting as much dead cash back into circulation as possible-and that meant lots of bounty and reclamation programs-but there were a lot of civilians screaming about that too. They said this was one more example of big government looting the private sector.
Translation: they weren't getting their share.
But, hell-the worm bounty wasn't limited to members of the military. Anyone who wanted a million caseys could go out and kill as many worms as he could find. The government would cheerfully pay up. The Montana office even paid in cash-all you had to do was deliver the mandibles.
No, it was something that Dr. Fromkin had said a year ago. He'd said that with a steadily shrinking labor force, the casey was doomed to inflate. I wondered if these big bounties were proof of it. I hadn't paid too much attention at the time because I hadn't had enough caseys to worry about. Now, however... I probably ought to do something with this cash while it was still worth something-but I wanted to do something with the money that made sense.
Something that would help the human race win the war. Except-I already knew, better than most people, that the human beings could not possibly win this war. We'd already lost; most of us just didn't know it yet.
No, the best that humanity could hope for was not victory, but survival.
Hm....
I punched for DIRECTORY. Yes, there was a local office of Lunar Five Enterprises in Berkeley. A white-haired woman answered the phone. Yes, she said, the Lunar Colony was officially reopenedand yes, construction on the two L-5 stations had resumed. As a matter of fact, the project was operating under the authority of the North American Unification Treaty, and as such was able to draw funding from public corporations in Canada, the United States, the nation of Quebec, both Mexicos, and the Isthmus Protectorate.
Did I care to invest? she inquired. She flashed me a list of the companies currently involved.
I could have climbed through the screen and kissed her.
I studied the list for half an hour-did some exploring through the network for background information-and eventually decided to buy a nice large piece of a Boeing Olympus-class high-orbit shuttle. The more spaceships we had, the better. There was stock available in the Apollo, the Hercules, and the Vulcan. No, those were already funded to the point of construction. I wanted this investment to make a difference. It cost just a little under three million to start a new shuttle. I decided to spread my cash three ways and start construction on the Pegasus, the Athena, and the Ganymede. I swept half of the rest of the money into the Kilimanjaro catapult and the other half into the Beanstalk Project. The latter looked like a long shot to me, but the payoff was very attractive. If the orbital elevator worked, the cost of lifting one kilo of mass into orbit would drop from five thousand caseys to five. All you'd pay for was the electricity, and you'd get most of that back on the way down.
The Paymaster's office could handle the necessary paperwork. The advantage to using the U. S. Army brokerage is that the commission is held to a scale rate, and your taxes are paid automatically. These particular investments, though, fell under the Resource Incentive Program and no taxes could be assessed on reinvested funds-so almost all that cash got put to work and Uncle Sam's share was limited to the handling charge. I set up a recycling trust with instructions that any and all future bounty payments were to be automatically invested in the same areas, authorized and confirmed, signed off and put the whole thing out of my mind. Alan Wise be damned.
I finished by dropping a quick note into my mother's mailbox letting her know that I had named her as beneficiary.
I logged off-realized I was already late to Dr. Fletcher's session-and headed down to the lab section. I slipped quietly into the back of the theater; all the chairs were filled so I found myself an inconspicuous place on the side to stand. There were a lot more uniforms in the audience than last time. This must be important. There was a lot of brass present.
Down below, Tiny was already hard at work. The worm's claws moved thoughtfully over the controls of the problem. This particular puzzle had a lot of interlocking rods and sliding blocks. It was almost too complex to visualize.
According to the outline Fletcher had sent me, these problems were designed by a computer program and could be manufactured to almost any degree of difficulty. So far, they had not come up with a problem that Tiny could not solve. The longest the worm had ever taken had been six hours.
Right now, an overhead clock showed the elapsed time was seventeen minutes. According to the agenda, this was supposed to be an "easy" problem.
The chime sounded, the cage popped open-and Tiny grabbed the rabbit. A white rabbit. Seventeen minutes, thirty-seven seconds. The rabbit did not have time to squeal.
Dr. Fletcher touched her controls and the panel with the puzzle slid closed. She said, "I know that many of you have seen our earlier demonstrations, you know what Tiny is capable of. If we were to give it this puzzle again, Tiny would remember exactly the sequence of moves to open it, and would probably take no more than thirty seconds. Now-" She typed something into her keyboard, waited, frowned, typed again and looked up.
"Our second specimen," she continued, "was captured near Superstition Mountain in Southern Arizona last month. It was close to death from dehydration and hunger. That area is not particularly kind to the gastropedes. We've found a number of their carcasses in the area. We think they wander down from the northern part of the state; there have been sightings in the high country. Had this one not been so weak, capture would have been out of the question, as the creature already massed nine hundred kilos. As it was, t
wo men were killed and three others injured-and the creature was almost destroyed. We call this second specimen `Lucky'." She added, "We think that Lucky may be a female-but we aren't certain." She touched a control and another panel in the chamber below slid open. "I am now going to introduce Lucky to the chamber."
There were audible gasps when Lucky appeared. According to the briefing book, this was the biggest worm in captivity. The beast slid into the chamber like a bus filling a row of parking places.
The two worms goggled their eyes at each other, chirruped and trilled. They circled each other like boxers
"We believe this is a ritual behavior," said Fletcher. "Perhaps a kind of meeting dance."
The two worms suddenly leapt at each other and writhed together like snakes, turning and tumbling across the floor of the chamber. First one, then the other, was on top. It looked almost like a combat to the death.
"The first time we put them together," Fletcher noted, "we thought they were trying to kill each other."
Suddenly, the two worms froze in position. They were wrapped rigidly around each other. They held like lovers at climax; their bodies were as tense as steel.
"We call this state communion. It is as close to a sexual behavior as we have yet seen in the gastropedes." She looked like she wanted to add something else, but was holding back. "The length of communion tends to vary. So far, our experience has been that the more often two worms are exposed to each other, the shorter any individual episode of communion will be. We have four worms we're working with here. We've found that the first exposure is usually the longest. We have some theories about this, but none that we're willing to discuss at this point, let alone endorse." She glanced down into the chamber. "Ah, I see that they're complete-"
Lucky and Tiny were disentangling. They curled and chirruped, rolled sideways, trilled and broke apart.
Now Fletcher opened the passage to Tiny's cell and the smaller worm slid obediently into it. She remarked, "As I've said before, we have not tamed the worms. The creatures appear to cooperate, yes; but we rather think that they're learning the routine of our operations more than anything else. Even a kitten can learn to identify a refrigerator as the source of milk."
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