But on Pharos, my relationship with the wind became a matter of vital necessity. It had been so, in a way, before. He had saved my life in the Halcyon Drift, and again on Chao Phrya, and perhaps on Rhapsody as well. But on those occasions, it had been a matter of an action which was as soon forgotten as it was over. On Pharos, I had to live with what he was doing for several days.
Like everyone else on Pharos, I was infected with the killers which had been manufactured by the Pharos lifesystem. Unlike most people on Pharos, I remained quite unstricken by the viruses. While I am not by nature a violent man, I cannot claim to be free of aggressive tendencies, destructive impulses and anger, as some of the men apparently could. That I was not affected is not really to my credit but to the wind’s.
The wind was merely a second mind sharing my brain and my body. But he was a far older mind, and a far more accomplished mind. He was able to make far more use of the mind-body identity than I.
In a way, he was more me than I was. But he was also discreet and valued a harmonious existence. He couldn’t get rid of me any more than I could get rid of him, and he couldn’t “take over” my body. He could walk while I was running, but all that would happen was that I would fall over—there was no question of one of us being able to overrule the other. What we did, we had to do together. The only areas in which he had total control were the areas in which I had none. The organisation of the body against invading parasites was one such area.
He couldn’t stop the actual invasion, and he couldn’t kill the parasites once they were in, but he could and did efficiently combat the deleterious effects that they might perpetrate on my body. I wasn’t immune to the Pharos bugs, but they couldn’t kill me. That was good to know.
What was more, if anyone had a chance to figure out a viable combat strategy for use on a wide scale against the bugs, it was probably the wind. He might not have Markoff’s know-how or Charlot’s genius, but he didn’t need microscopes to get in touch with the bugs. He could be that sensitive, if he tried.
How’s it coming along? I asked him, on the morning of the fifth day.
It’s difficult, he replied. Refining consciousness to the molecular level isn’t easy.
I thought it came naturally, I said.
It does. When I’m free-living. But when I’m free-living I’m also practically dormant. You know how long it took me to get a purchase in your mind while we were both abandoned on that wretched rock. Reprogramming my genetic information into random patterns of air molecules didn’t exactly leave me much self-consciousness to play with. Transferring my organisation from one system of potential order to another may come naturally to me, but it doesn’t entitle me to work miracles. You were an egg once, remember?
Not exactly, I said.
Quite so.
Have you made any progress at all? I asked him.
I’ve got a fairly good grasp on how the triggers are put together. We were right in thinking that the triggers were the things to look at—even though the viruses are different, the trigger-mechanisms are basically similar. If we can deactivate one trigger, we can deactivate them all. And that’s what we need, if we don’t want the galaxy to be condemned to eternal peace—with humanity extinct as a probable side-effect. But getting the feel of the trigger isn’t really enough. It’s just not in me for me to perceive at that level what sort of an anti-agent, if any, could be effective against it. If Markoff can make a reasonable analogue of the molecule in his computer, I guess I can confirm whether it’s accurate or not, so that the computer can work out an effective specific. But how long is it going to take to build an analogue? Months? If the computer has the storage space, which I doubt.
All in all, I said, you’re getting nowhere.
Well, he said, with what was almost an air of reluctance, not quite.
Go on.
This is just my opinion, he said. And I can’t guarantee its accuracy at this stage. But it seems to me that the trigger just isn’t sophisticated enough to react in the way you think it does.
To specific chemical changes in the blood following strong emotional outbreaks.
That’s right. You’ve got to remember that such changes aren’t all that specific. In terms of what happens chemically, one strong emotion is pretty much like another. The glandular reaction pattern is much the same for lust as for rage, for joy as for hate. In order for the trigger to be activated just by chemical balance in the blood, it would have to be coded to take account of a vast range of variables, and it still might not be one hundred percent reliable.
It seems to be pretty accurate, to date, I said. What alternative is there? Surely you’re not going to try to pass off a telepathic virus on me?
Not actually telepathic, he said. But something like. I think the stimuli that activate the triggers might be electrical. I think the viruses are sensitive to neuronic patterns.
Do you know of any other instances of that sort of sensitivity? I asked.
Yes, he said. Me. And, if my assumptions are correct, the Pharos life-system. You see, that suggests a way that this mutation filtration system might work. Without natural selection, it’s difficult to see how the life-system on Pharos manages to choose between alternative forms. There can’t be any test of viability in the same sense that mutations on Earth are tested by circumstance according to their ability to survive. The only test the Pharos system can apply is one of pattern—life is order, and order has certain electrical patterns associated with it. It seems to me that the single crucial point in the evolution of life on Pharos—which may have been superficially similar to life on Earth at one point—was the evolution of this pattern-sensitive trigger molecule. The trigger promptly started turning Pharos into a perfectly ordered, perfectly stable Paradise. And the life-system’s natural reaction to any invader or random mutation within itself is to apply the test-by-trigger. It was slow reacting to flesh of Terrestrial origin because of the differences in chemical composition, but the fact that it reacted at all at least implies that the system is electrically sensitive rather than chemically.
OK, I said. I’ll buy it. So what?
So instead of looking for something to chemically denature the trigger-proteins, try to find something to denature them electrically.
But at a molecular level, chemical activity is electrical activity, I said.
Indeed, he replied, having anticipated the remark. But not necessarily vice versa.
I thought about it for a moment. What do you want us to do? I asked. Shoot five thousand volts through each other?
Unnecessary, said the wind. Have you ever heard of echo currents?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I took the brilliant idea to Charlot. He was pretty sick, but his mind was working fine. I told him the idea about the electrical nature of the Pharos mutational filter, and gave him a neat chain of hence and therefores leading him through the possible electrosensitivity of the triggers to the possibility of throwing the triggers out of kilter using magnets.
To be quite honest, I expected him to explode with laughter. It did sound a bit ridiculous, from my point of view. I didn’t know what I was talking about, of course—the wind supplied me with all the patter. I just reeled it out. But it must have made some kind of sense, because it certainly fired Charlot’s volatile imagination.
‘It’s a chance,’ he said. ‘A definite chance.’
‘There’s one thing that worries me,’ I told him.
‘What’s that?’
‘Messing about with triggers. Seems to me you’ll have to be very careful. I mean, jerk it too hard, and the damn thing might go off.’
He nodded. ‘We’ll have to be careful, but that’s only a minor point. If this is all correct, we have a way of attacking the viruses, and that’s what matters. That’s what we need—and quickly.’
‘Quickly?’ I queried. ‘I thought the rush was all over. As long as we all stay peaceful, that is.’
‘You haven’t thought this thing through,’ he said.
<
br /> Not unnaturally, I was somewhat offended by that remark. ‘Haven’t thought it through! My God, I’ve thought about nothing else. I’ve just brought you a complete diagnosis of the trouble. It might not be right, but my God, it represents some pretty solid thinking. And you tell me I haven’t thought things through. Had you worked out what I’ve just given you?’
‘I would have,’ he said. ‘In time. But I’m not trying to minimise that. If you’re right, you’ll have contributed to a virtual miracle. And I hope you are right. What I meant about the time factor was that a ship from New Alexandria will be here in a matter of days.’
‘To help us,’ I said.
‘If we can be helped. If not....’
‘Then what?’
‘You know perfectly well what these viruses could do to the people out there.’
‘So what? They’re not going to do any harm while they’re confined to the planet. We have all the time in the world to sort it out.’
‘And what about the Trisha Mellys of the galaxy?’
‘Trisha? She’s an idiot. But she’s not dangerous.’
‘Oh, but she is. How many people do you think there are out there who would just love a chance to enforce peace on us all? How many men are there that would see these viruses as a gift from God rather than a possible disaster? How many men are there that would be infatuated with the idea of a Paradise such as we have here? What sort of demand do you think the whole Paradise Game is trying to satisfy?’
‘But how could any man have that much confidence in himself?’ I demanded. ‘Hell, I know we’re all doing pretty well, but we’re living in hope of a cure. If we thought we had this to put up with forever.... How can any man be certain that he’ll never again give way to anger, or hatred, or the impulse to strike someone?’
‘Do you really want an answer to that?’ asked Charlot.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I get the drift.’
‘You see what I mean? We just couldn’t afford to have a planet like this in the galaxy, unless we had a specific and definite way of counteracting the effects of its produce. I’m afraid that ship coming out from New Alexandria will be carrying a bigger responsibility than aiding us. Someone, somewhere, will take upon themselves the responsibility of ordering our destruction.’
‘The whole world?’
‘The whole world.’
‘Nobody else knows about this?’
‘Unless they’ve worked it out for themselves. It’s not the sort of thing that anyone is going to talk about in the present predicament.’
‘You think they’d actually destroy us?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘New Alexandria?’
‘They’re not the only ones involved. You know that. The galaxy is full of destructive people. Look at it from their point of view. Pharos is a matter of destroy or be destroyed. What other choice have they? We don’t have time, Grainger. We don’t have time at all. I don’t know how long we have—how much they can afford to give us in their ultimate generosity—but I do know that if we can’t cure this thing within their deadline, we won’t be living out our lives in peace and harmony on Paradise. We’ll be booked on a one-way trip into the sun.’
‘You’re right,’ I said, feeling a little dazed. ‘You’re quite right. I hadn’t thought it through. Well, that being the case, I guess I’m doubly glad to have been of service in this little matter. I also think that perhaps I agree with Trisha Melly after all. I shouldn’t have rejected her opinions out of hand like that. You’re right—I hadn’t thought the thing through. It honestly had not occurred to me that they couldn’t even stand to let us live. They! Not Caradoc—not the out and out villains that nobody loves, but just they. New Alexandria and New Rome and the lot. You know, Titus, sometimes I think I’m stupid. Other times I think I might have been better off on that lousy lump of rock called Lapthorn’s Grave.’
‘I’d be careful about getting too bitter and resentful,’ he said quietly. ‘It isn’t healthy.’
Take note of that, said the wind. I can’t work miracles. If you activate that trigger, we’ll both have to take the consequences.
I sighed.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘OK. I’ll brood about it some other time. You go see Markoff, Titus. You start playing with that computer of his, and you see if you can come up with some magic magnetic remedy. Will we take it internally, do you think? Or will we just have to stand up to our necks in it? Anyhow, I wish you a speedy success, with all my heart. And can I please have a shot of something to make me happy? I feel a little fragile this morning.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Coming from someone who apologises about as much as I do, that’s something,’ I said. ‘What for?’
‘I shouldn’t have told you.’
‘I’m bloody glad you did,’ I said. ‘If my friend and I had worked that one out between us, I might really have let the gun go off.’
‘Friend?’ he queried.
‘Figure of speech,’ I said. And I left him to it. I did get the shot, though. I really wasn’t kidding about needing it.
Afterward, I went to talk to Johnny again, in the hope that it would cheer me up. It didn’t. Despite the stimu-shot washing benevolence and strength of mind around in my veins, I found that the company of human beings made my mind contemplate nasty things.
It wasn’t that I blamed anybody—certainly not. What Charlot said was quite true. The men who could destroy this world didn’t dare not to, unless we found a way of defusing its artillery. Fair enough. You couldn’t blame them. But on the other hand, it’s things like that tend to make one cynical.
The worst thing of all, I think, was that I later came to the conclusion that the men who might—almost certainly would—have destroyed Pharos would have been wrong, in a way. The Pharos bugs wouldn’t have destroyed the human race. We could have lived with them—and not just the one in ten or fifteen who never even got to stage two. After a while, even our guts might have stopped aching. We’d only have lost one in fifty right away—maybe one in ten in the final analysis. But even that runs to billions, I suppose. And there were only a lousy twelve hundred of us, plus a few thousand aliens. It all depends, I guess, on your economic theory.
Instead of talking to Johnny, I took a walk in Paradise. My attitude to it had changed. Before, I had reacted adversely to it. Now I had to wear a plastic suit to go out in it, and had to decontaminate myself every time I came home from it, it wasn’t Paradise anymore. It wasn’t even beautiful.
Beauty, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder.
I’d just inherited another blind spot.
I met some of the aliens while I was out walking. They approached me fearlessly, just as curious, just as playful as they had been the day the first Caradoc ship landed on their world. I let them walk with me for a while.
I liked them.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
By the time I got back to the ship, the sickness had filed a claim on one more body—Eve Lapthorn.
This meant that of the seventeen people currently resident aboard the Hooded Swan only three—one of the Aegis girls, Nick delArco (the original wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly guy), and myself—remained unafflicted. That was a far, far better average than Caradoc was managing, however. They had about forty healthy people left to them—at least six of whom, it was strongly rumoured, were the company whores. Markoff had been hit, and so had most of his staff, but they refused to lie down. They couldn’t afford to stop working.
I called to see Eve the moment I found out the thing had dug its claws into her. She wasn’t in bed—just resting, with an expression of valiant cheerfulness that looked as if it had been painted on.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing,’ she replied.
‘That’s what they all say,’ I informed her, with mock jocularity. ‘It came apart in me ‘ands. Honest, it’s a plant. I never touched the stuff. You have a sudden urge to beat somebody up?’
‘
No,’ she said. ‘If I got angry with anyone, it was with myself.’
‘Bit of a drag,’ I said, ‘when you can’t even fall out with yourself in private without being called upon to suffer. This is Paradise all right. You are hereby ordered to be happy. Or else. It’s a hard life.’
‘Sure is,’ she agreed.
‘Is that really what happened?’ I asked, striking a more serious note. ‘You got angry with yourself?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ she said. ‘It could be that. But I think it’s probably because I’ve slowly got to hating this place.’
I nodded sympathetic understanding. ‘It’s a difficult place to love,’ I admitted.
‘You seem to manage,’ she said.
‘I don’t love it,’ I assured her. ‘But I slowly stopped hating it, instead of the other way around.’
She gave me a long, steady look that made me feel a fraction uncomfortable.
‘Just how is it,’ she said, ‘that an irascible bastard like you, who reckons to hate the whole damn universe, manages to hold this thing at arm’s length, while the rest of us, one by one, let it into our systems?’
‘I don’t hate the whole universe,’ I said. ‘I just don’t like it very much. I guess I just don’t feel anything about it very much. Don’t confuse me with Nick. He’s holding this thing back with sheer goodness of heart. It’s not getting to me because I haven’t got a heart.’
She was still looking at me.
‘Your bark must be one hell of a lot worse than your bite,’ she said.
‘Bite? I haven’t got a bite. You know me—I’m too tiny to be a bother to anybody. I don’t bite. I don’t even bark, really. I just make noises.’
She shook her head. ‘Nobody’s too tiny to bite,’ she said. ‘What do you think is putting the bite on all of us, right now? It’s the little things that bite the hardest.’
I spread my hands wide. ‘In that case,’ I said, ‘I have no excuses. I don’t bite because I don’t bite. It’s no use trying to work out why this thing hasn’t laid me prostrate or kicked me right out like poor Ullman. That’s the way it goes. I can’t tell you my secret.’
The Paradise Game Page 14
