For a long, long moment, Simon looked at Harker. Then he glanced again into the screen, and then aside at Curt, who nodded and slowly switched it off. Curt began to remove the tubes of the Fraser unit from Keogh’s wrists.
Simon said, “Wait, Curtis. Leave them as they are.”
Curt straightened, a certain startled wonder in his eyes. Simon glided to where Harker stood, whiter and more stricken than the dead man on the table.
Simon spoke his name three times, before he roused himself to answer.
“Yes?”
“How much courage have you, Harker? As much as Keogh? As much as I?”
Harker shook his head.
“There are times when courage doesn’t help a bit.”
“Listen to me, Harker! Have you courage to walk beside Keogh into Moneb, knowing that he is dead?”
The eyes of the stocky man widened. And Curt Newton came to Simon and said in a strange voice, “What are you thinking of?”
“I am thinking of a brave man who died in the act of seeking help from us. I am thinking of many innocent men and women who will die, unless... Harker, it is true, is it not, that the success of your fight depended on Keogh?”
HARKER’S gaze dwelt upon the body stretched on the table — a body that breathed and pulsed with the semblance of life borrowed from the sighing pumps.
“That is true,” he said. “That’s why they killed him. He was the leader. With him gone —” Harker’s broad hands made a gesture of utter loss.
“Then it must not be known that Keogh died.”
Curt said harshly, “No! Simon, you can’t do it!”
“Why not, Curtis? You are perfectly capable of completing the operation.”
“They’ve killed the man once. They’ll be ready to do it again. Simon, you can’t risk yourself! Even if I could do the operation — no!”
Something queerly pleading came into Curt’s gray eyes. “This is my kind of a job, Simon. Mine and Grag’s and Otho’s. Let us do it.”
“And how will you do it?” Simon asked. “By force? By reasoning? You are not omnipotent, Curtis. Nor are Grag and Otho. You, all three of you, would be going into certain death, and even more certain defeat. And I know you. You would go.”
Simon paused. It seemed to him suddenly that he had gone mad, that he must be mad to contemplate what he was about to do. And yet, it was the only way — the only possible chance of preventing an irretrievable disaster.
Simon knew what the Harpers could do, in the wrong hands. He knew what would happen to the Earthmen in New Town. And he knew too what retribution for that would overtake the many guiltless people of Moneb, as well as the few guilty ones.
He glanced beyond Harker and saw Grag standing there, and Otho beside him, his green eyes very bright, and Simon thought, I made them both, I and Roger Newton. I gave them hearts and minds and courage. Some day they will perish, but it will not be because I failed them.
And there was Curt, stubborn, reckless, driven by the demon of his own loneliness, a bitter searcher after knowledge, a stranger to his own kind.
Simon thought. We made him so, Otho and Grag and I. And we wrought too well. There is too much iron in him. He will break, but never bend — and I will not have him broken because of me!
Harker said, very slowly, “I don’t understand.”
Simon explained. “Keogh’s body is whole. Only the brain was destroyed. If the body were supplied with another brain — mine — Keogh would seem to live again, to finish his task in Moneb.”
Harker stood for a long moment without speaking. Then he whispered, “Is that possible?”
“Quite possible. Not easy, not even safe — but possible.”
Harker’s hands clenched into fists. Something, a light that might have been hope, crept back into his eyes.
“Only we five,” said Simon, “know that Keogh died. There would be no difficulty there. And I know the language of Titan, as I know most of the System tongues.
“But I would still need help — a guide, who knew Keogh’s life and could enable me to live it for the short time that is necessary. You, Harker. And I warn you, it will not be easy.”
Harker’s voice was low, but steady. “If you can do the one thing, I can do the other.”
Curt Newton said angrily, “No one is going to do anything of the sort. Simon, I won’t have any part of it!”
The stormy look that Simon knew so well had come into Curt’s face. If Simon had been able to, he would have smiled. Instead, he spoke exactly as he had spoken so many times before, long ago when Curt Newton was a small red-headed boy playing in the lonely corridors of the laboratory hidden under Tycho, with no companions but the robot, the android, and Simon, himself.
“You will do as I say, Curtis!” He turned to the others. “Grag, take Mr. Harker into the main cabin. See that he sleeps, for he will need his strength. Otho, Curtis will want your help.”
Otho came in and shut the door. He glanced from Simon to Curt and back again, his eyes brilliant with a certain acid amusement. Curt stood where he was, his jaw set, unmoving.
SIMON glided over to the cabinets built solidly against one wall. Using the wonderfully adaptable force-beams more skillfully than a man uses his hands, he took from them the needful things — the trephine saw, the clamps and sutures, the many-shaped delicate knives. And the other things, that had set modern surgery so far ahead of the crude Twentieth Century techniques. The compounds that prevented bleeding, the organic chemicals that promoted cell regeneration so rapidly and fully that a wound would heal within hours and leave no scar, the stimulants and anesthetics that prevented shock, the neuron compounds.
The UV tube was pulsing overhead, sterilizing everything in the laboratory. Simon, whose vision was better and touch more sure than that of any surgeon dependent on human form, made the preliminary incision in Keogh’s skull.
Curt Newton had still not moved. His face was as set and stubborn as before, but there was a pallor about it now, something of desperation.
Simon said sharply, “Curtis!”
Curt moved then. He came to the table and put his hands on it beside the dead man’s head, and Simon saw that they trembled.
“I can’t,” he whispered. “Simon, I can’t do it. I’m afraid.”
Simon looked steadily into his eyes. “There is no need to be. You will not let me die.”
He held out a glittering instrument. Slowly, like a man in a dream, Curt took it.
Otho’s bright gaze softened. He nodded to Simon, across Curt’s shoulder, and smiled. There was admiration in that smile, for both of them.
Simon busied himself with other things.
“Pay particular attention, Curtis, to the trigeminal, glossopharyngeal, facial —”
“I know all about that,” said Curt, with a peculiar irritation.
“— pneumogastric, spinal accessory, and hypoglossal nerves,” Simon finished. Vials and syringes were laid in a neat row. “Here is the anaesthetic to be introduced into my serum-stream. And immediately after the operation, this is to be injected beneath the dura and pia mater.”
Curt nodded. His hands had stopped shaking, working now with swift, sure skill. His mouth had thinned to a grim line.
Simon thought, He’ll do. He’ll always do.
There was a moment, then, of waiting. Simon looked down at the man John Keogh and of a sudden fear took hold of him, a deep terror of what he was about to do.
He was content as he was. Once, many years before, he had made his choice between extinction and his present existence. The genius of Curt’s own father had saved him then, given him new life, and Simon had made peace with that life, strange as it was, and turned it to good use. He had discovered the advantages of his new form — the increased skills, the ability to think clearly with a mind unfettered by useless and uncontrollable impulses of the flesh. He had learned to be grateful for them.
And now, after all these years...
He thought, I cannot do it, after
all! I, too, am afraid — not of dying, but of life.
And yet, beneath that fear was longing, a hunger that Simon had thought mercifully dead these many years.
The longing to be once again a man, a human being clothed in flesh.
The cold, clear mind of Simon Wright, the precise, logical unwavering mind, reeled under the impact of these mingled dreads and hungers. They leaped up full stature from their graves in his subconscious. He was shocked that he could still be prey to emotion, and the voice of his mind cried out, I cannot do it! No, I cannot!
Curt said quietly, “All ready, Simon.”
Slowly, very slowly, Simon moved and came to rest beside John Keogh. He saw Otho watching him, with a look of pain and understanding, and — yes, envy. Being unhuman himself, Otho would know, where others could only guess.
Curt’s face was cut from stone. The serum-pump broke its steady rhythm, and then went on.
Simon Wright passed quietly into the darkness.
Chapter 3: Once Born of Flesh
HEARING came first. A distant confusion of sounds, seeming very dull and blurred. Simon’s first thought was that something had gone wrong with his auditory mechanism. Then a chill wing of memory brushed him, and in its wake came a pang of fear, and a sense of wrongness.
It was dark. Why should it be so dark in the Comet! From far off, someone called his name. “Simon! Simon, open your eyes!”
Eyes?
Again that dull inchoate terror. His mind was heavy. It refused to function, and the throb of the serum-pump was gone.
The serum-pump, Simon thought. It has stopped, and I am dying!
He must call for help. That had happened once before, and Curt had saved him. He cried out, “Curtis, the serum-pump has stopped!”
The voice was not his own, and it was formed so strangely.
“I’m here, Simon. Open your eyes.” A long unused series of motor relays clicked over in Simon’s brain at that repeated command. Without conscious volition he raised his eyelids. Someone’s eyelids, surely not his own! He had not had eyelids for many years!
He saw.
Vision like the hearing, dim and blurred. The familiar laboratory seemed to swim in a wavering haze. Curt’s face, and Otho’s, and above them the looming form of Grag, and a strange man... No, not strange; he had a name and Simon knew it — Harker.
That name started the chain, and Simon remembered. Memory pounced upon him, worried him, tore him, and now he could feel the fear — the physical anguish of it, the sweating, the pounding of the heart, the painful contraction of the great bodily ganglia.
“Raise your hand, Simon. Raise your right hand.” There was a strained undertone in Curt’s voice. Simon understood. Curt was afraid he might not have done things properly.
Uncertainly, like a child who has not yet learned coordination, Simon raised his right hand. Then his left. He looked at them for an endless moment and let them fall. Drops of saline moisture stung his eyes, and he remembered them. He remembered tears.
“You’re all right,” Curt said shakily. He helped Simon raise his head and held a glass to his lips. “Can you drink this? It will clear away the fog, give you strength.”
Simon drank, and the act of drinking had wonder in it.
The potion counteracted the remaining effects of the anaesthetic. Sight and hearing cleared, and he had his mind under control again. He lay still for some time, trying to adjust himself to the all-but-forgotten sensations of the flesh.
The little things. The crispness of a sheet against the skin, the warmth, the pleasure of relaxed lips. The memory of sleep.
He sighed, and in that, too, there was wonder. “Give me your hand, Curtis. I will stand.”
Curt was on one side, Otho on the other, steadying him. And Simon Wright, in the body of John Keogh, rose from the table where he had lain and stood upright, a man and whole.
By the doorway, Harker fell forward in a dead faint.
Simon looked at him, the strong stocky man crumpled on the floor, his face gray and sick. He said, with a queer touch of pity for all humanity, “I told him it would not be easy.”
But even Simon had not realized just how hard it would be.
There were so many things to be learned all over again. Long used to a weightless, effortless ease of movement, this tall rangy body he now inhabited seemed heavy and awkward, painfully slow. He had great difficulty in managing it. At first his attempts to walk were a series of ungainly staggerings wherein he must cling to something to keep from falling.
His sense of balance had to undergo a complete readjustment. And the dullness of his sight and hearing bothered him. That was only comparative, he knew — Keogh’s sight and hearing had been excellent, by all human standards. But they lacked the precision, the selectivity, the clarity to which Simon had become accustomed. He felt as though his senses were somehow muffled, as by a veil.
And it was a strange thing, when he stumbled or made an incautious movement, to feel pain again.
BUT as he began to gain control over this complicated bulk of bone and muscle and nerve, Simon found himself taking joy in it. The endless variety of sensory and tactile impressions, the feeling of life, of warm blood flowing, the knowing of heat and cold and hunger were fascinating.
Once born of flesh, he thought, and clenched his hands together. What have I done? What madness have I done?
He must not think of that, nor of himself. He must think of nothing but the task to be done, in the name of John Keogh who was dead.
Harker recovered from his faint. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “It was just that I saw him — you — rise up and stand, it —” He did not finish. “I’m all right, now. You don’t have to worry.”
Simon noticed that he kept his eyes averted as much as possible. But there was a dogged look about him that said he told the truth.
“We ought to get back as soon as you can make it,” Harker said. “We — Keogh and I, have been gone too long as it is.”
He added, “There’s just one thing. What about Dion?”
“Dion?”
“Keogh’s son.”
Simon said slowly, “No need to tell the boy. He could not understand, and it will only torture him.”
Mercifully, he thought, the time would be short. But he wished that Keogh had not had a son.
Curt interrupted. “Simon, I’ve been talking to Harker. The council is tonight, only a few hours away. And you will have to go alone into the Inner City, for there Harker is not allowed to enter.
“But Otho and I are going to try to get around Moneb and into the council hall, secretly. Harker tells me that was Keogh’s idea, and it’s a good one — if it works. Grag will stay with the ship, on call if necessary.”
He handed Simon two objects, a small mono-wave audio disc and a heavy metal box only four inches square.
“We’ll keep in touch with the audios,” he said. “The other is a hasty adaptation of the Comet’s own repellor field, but tuned for sonic vibrations. I had to rob two of the coil units. What do you think of it?”
Simon examined the tiny box, the compact, cunning interior arrangement of oscillators, the capsule power unit, the four complicated grids.
“The design might have been further simplified, Curtis — but, under the circumstances, a creditable job. It will serve very well, in case of necessity.”
“Let’s hope,” said Curt feelingly, “that there won’t be any such case.” He looked at Simon and smiled. His eyes held a deep pride and admiration.
“Good luck,” he said.
Simon held out his hand. It was long and long since he had done that. He was amazed to find his voice unsteady.
“Take care,” he said. “All of you.”
He turned and went out, going still a bit uncertainly, and behind him he heard Curt speaking low and savagely to Harker.
“If you let anything happen to him, I’ll kill you with my own hands!”
Simon smiled.
Harker joined him, a
nd they went together through the lichen forest, ghostly under the dim, far Sun. The tall growths were silent now that the wind had died. And as they went, Harker talked of Moneb and the men and women who dwelt there. Simon listened, knowing that his life depended on remembering what he heard.
But even that necessity could not occupy more than one small part of his mind. The rest of it was busy with the other things — the bitter smell of dust, the chill bite of the air in the shaded places, the warmth of the sun in the clearings, the intricate play of muscles necessary to the taking of a step, the rasp of lichen fronds over unprotected skin, the miracle of breathing, of sweating, of grasping an object with five fingers of flesh.
The little things one took for granted. The small, miraculous incredible things that one never noticed until they were gone.
He had seen the forest before as a dull-gray monochrome, heard it as a pattern of rustling sound. It had been without temperature, scent or feel. Now it had all of these things. Simon was overwhelmed with a flood of impressions, poignant almost beyond enduring.
HE GATHERED strength and sureness as he went. By the time he breasted the slope of the ridge, he could find pleasure in the difficulty of climbing, scrambling up over treacherous slides of dust, choking, coughing as the acrid powder invaded his lungs.
Harker swore, shambling bearlike up the steep way among the lichens. And suddenly Simon laughed. He could not have said what made him do so. But it was good to laugh again.
They avoided the clearing by common consent. Harker led the way, lower down across the ridge. They came out onto open ground, and Simon was touched beyond measure to find that he had a shadow.
They paused to get their breath, and Harker glanced sidelong at Simon, his eyes full of a strange curiosity.
“How does it feel?” he asked. “How does it feel to be a man again?”
Simon did not answer. He could not. There were no words. He looked away from Harker, out over the valley that lay so quiet under the shadowy Sun. He was filled with a strange excitement, so that he felt himself tremble. As though suddenly frightened by what he had said, and all the things that were implicit in that question, Harker turned suddenly and plunged down the slope, almost running, and Simon followed. Once he slipped and caught himself, gashing his hand against a rock. He stood motionless, watching with wondering eyes the slow red drops that ran from the cut, until Harker had called him three rimes by Keogh’s name, and once by his own.
Captain Future 23 - The Harpers of Titan (September 1950) Page 2
