Through the Eye of a Needle n-2

by Hal Clement

  Through the Eye of a Needle

  ( Needle - 2 )

  Hal Clement

  Hal Clement

  Through the Eye of a Needle

  Apology

  Everyone wants to make an impression on history, but most of us would prefer it to be a good impression. Some twenty-eight years ago, I wrote a story called NEEDLE, many of whose characters reappear in this book. In that story, I frequently referred to one or the other of the partners in the biological relation called symbiosis as a symbiote. It will be obvious to many that I was never exposed to a course in the classic tongues of Italy or Greece. A biology-teaching colleague pointed out to me, gently and courteously but much too late that the proper word is symbiont.

  Unfortunately, my erroneous contribution to the language has appeared quite frequently in other stories and even in their titles. I regret this, but don't know what I can do about it except what I am doing now. I formally withdraw the word, symbiote, and in this book replace it with the proper one.

  Those who still have hopes of formulating a science which will describe social phenomena will, I trust, have fun observing the results of this action.

  If any.

  Hal Clement

  1. Generalities

  Of the three people in the cockpit of the Catalina, one was slightly bored, one was extremely uncomfortable but too embarrassed to admit it, and the third was wondering whether he had done the right thing.

  The pilot had made the trip from Tahiti to Ell often enough and had enough thousands of hours in the amphibian that little of his conscious attention was needed for either operation or navigation. The weather was bumpy but called for no special concern and the aircraft itself was reliable enough to demand only the routine worries of the man's profession.

  Robert Kinnaird did not regard the weather with the same indifference. He knew as well as the man in the other seat that there was no danger, but the knowledge didn't seem to help his nervous system at the reflex level. His eyes and his semicircular canals were feeding conflicting data to his brain. The Pacific was garnished with convection cells that afternoon; some of them were visible by virtue of the cumulus puffs which topped them, but others could only make themselves felt. The young man had several times been on the verge of suggesting that they climb above the cumulus tops, but he knew what the answer would be. Dulac, the pilot, had very professional ideas about fuel conservation, even on a short trip such as this. His combat flying over the same ocean during the early forties had given him a clear idea of the magnitude of the water-to-land ratio even in areas where islands were frequent. Kinnaird himself had insisted on making the flight that afternoon, rather than early the following morning. Dulac had warned him that it would be a bumpy ride. All that Bob could do was feel irritated at the third member of the group, and he knew that any such annoyance was both unjustified and futile. He had known for years that the Hunter would do nothing about such a trivial phenomenon as motion sickness.

  The Hunter himself was not quite sure whether he should take steps or not. The flight was, of course, Bob's own fault; there was no practical reason why they couldn't have waited until the next day. The human youth knew, from both precept and experience that his alien companion would do everything in his power to preserve him from real injury or illness, but that he did not want to encourage Bob to lean at all heavily on the being's invisible presence. The four pounds of jelly distributed throughout the man's body cavities knew that total dependence on another being could lead to even more trouble than seven years of partial dependence already had. The Hunter, these days, tended to lean over backward to avoid doing anything more than basic scratch-plugging. He knew that he was overreacting, and that a little nerve pressure to ease his host's nausea would probably do no real harm; but, with Bob's health at its present level, he could not bring himself to take a chance. After all, the trip couldn't take much longer.

  In an attempt to be consoling, he pointed this out to Bob. The pilot could not hear him, since the sound of the Hunter's voice originated in his host's middle-ear bones, vibrated by threads of unhuman tissues but the response was less well concealed.

  "Don't tell me it wont be long!" snapped Kinnaird. "It's been three and a half eternities already, and the island isn't in sight yet. Why didn't you talk me out of it?" His voice was not quite audible, though he did speak-the Hunter was not a mind-reader, though he could interpret the emotion behind most of Bob's involuntary muscular and glandular responses. The pilot might possibly have heard the mutter if the engines had not been running.

  "What was I supposed to say?" retorted the Hunter. "I did point out that Dulac was right about the roughness of the flight. Since you have final say about any of our activities-unless I want to exercise veto by knocking you out-there was nothing much more I could do. You chose to face it-now face it. After all, there's nothing in your stomach to lose even if your control does go."

  "I wish you'd exercise that veto right now. At least I'd be comfortable until we get down. I mean it, Hunter. I've never felt worse in my life. Maybe the other trouble is contributing, but I really don't think I can put up with it any longer."

  The Hunter was tempted for a moment, but decided against taking the chance.

  "This isn't that sort emergency, and you know it," the alien said. "I'm sorry you're so uncomfortable, but no one ever dies of motion sickness; as your own people say. They-"

  "If you say what I think you're about to, I'll get drunk the minute we get home!" Bob interrupted, almost loudly enough to attract Dulac's attention. The Hunter, whose main aim was to keep his host's attention from his own stomach, refrained from repeating the cliché, and simply changed the subject. The remark about alcohol he assumed-and hoped-was not meant seriously; Bob definitely knew better than to take chances with his symbiont's personal coordination.

  "Do you really think we can get anywhere without letting more human beings know about me?" the alien asked. "We're going to need a lot of help."

  "I'm hoping for most from Doc Seever," Bob replied. "His hours are kind of irregular, of course, since there's no way to predict sickness or injury there on the island, but he certainly knows more of what has to be known than anyone else there. Dad'll be too busy to help, most of the time. We really should have some people who are either a lot lower in the PFI chain of command and don't have much but eight-to-five responsibilities, or people who don't work for the outfit at all. The latter will be hard to find on Ell."

  "Your mother is a competent person."

  "She'll have to spend too much time looking after Silly."

  "Your sister is six years old, now. She shouldn't need very much of your mother's time-won't she be in school by now?"

  "Maybe. I've almost forgotten when school keeps down here."

  The discussion was interrupted by a tap on Bob's shoulder, felt by both speakers. Both looked ahead, the Hunter having no choice in the matter. The island which Bob regarded as home, though he had been away from it well over half the time for the last ten years, was clearly visible ahead, the low sun accenting the ridges which formed the two arms of the L-shape, and gleaming from the square outlines of the culture tanks which studded the lagoon. Dulac banked a trifle to the right, and eased back on the throttles.

  "Well be down in fifteen minutes," he assured his passenger.

  "Good." Bob's approval was very sincere, "I'm sorry I talked you into a. ride this bumpy, but at least we'll be home that much sooner."

  "You mean you will. It doesn't matter that much to me where I sleep. What you've talked me into is having tomorrow off, thanks. I was supposed to get this bucket to Ell by tomorrow night for work the next day. As far as the ride was concerned, you did all the suffering
, so don't apologize to me."

  Bob had done a little flying during his college years, though nothing as large and heavy as the Dumbo had been involved. The procedures of let down, pattern entry, and final approach were meaningful enough to keep his attention off his stomach for the remaining minutes of the flight. They swept above the western arm of the island, almost above Bob's home, at five hundred feet, though only the pilot could see the house-they were in a left bank onto the downwind leg, and when they leveled on an eastward heading, the land was behind and to their left. Final approach carried the amphibian over the shorter leg of the L, only a few feet above its ridge and the tanks it carried. Bob thought he recognized a few faces on the long causeway which led out to the dock where the tankers loaded, but didn't have time to be sure. He had the impression that there were more houses in the village-the area at the bend of the L, where the road from the causeway met the one which ran the length of the island, but again he couldn't be sure; there were too many trees. It was likely enough that there were. Pacific Fuels, Incorporated, had been doing very well, especially during the recent Korean troubles, and the population of the island had been climbing, It had been about one hundred and seventy when the Hunter had first come ashore on Ell nearly eight years before, after his crash in the ocean outside the reef; now, both he and his host knew, it was about fifty greater. Many of the new ones were children, of course, but by no means all. The store, the school, and the library had all been enlarged, and more adults were needed to take care of the increased production facilities.

  The landing area was marked off by buoys, and the numerous boats and canoes on the lagoon were safely clear. Dulac touched down within twenty yards of the runway's beginning, let the amphibian come to a near halt, and manipulated his throttles to bring the machine about. This brought the right cockpit seat, occupied by Bob and the Hunter, toward the shore, and both examined the island eagerly for changes; they had not been there for two years. Even from here, however, the trees kept them from seeing much. The long northwest leg of the island was still heavily jungled. Boats could be examined more easily: Most of the ones occupied by juveniles were now being paddled, towed, or sailed toward the long dock, though their owners were careful to keep out of the, airplane's way. The island population was of a mixed descent that was largely Polynesian, and the adults were casual about allowing children of all ages on and in the water, but took a very dim view of their offspring's violating the more common-sense safety rules of swimming and boat-handling. Few of the youngsters would have risked being kept ashore for a week or so, since they got no sympathy from their friends.

  They even left tie-up room at the float, a twenty-yard-square structure two hundred yards from shore connected by a slanting gangway to the main dock. The raft itself was crowded with youngsters by the time the amphibian nosed into the notch provided for it, but they kept well back from the propellers as Dulac cut his mixtures and let the blades whirl to a stop. Bob and the Hunter knew most of the faces in the crowd, but were attracted to a lanky, six-foot-plus blond youth who approached with a line in his hands and began the job of mooring the aircraft It was Kenneth Malmstrom, one of the quintet who had shared unknowingly in the Hunter's police problem seven years before.

  The sight of the young worker sent their minds in two different directions as Bob and his symbiont made their way back toward the hatch of the Catalina. Kinnaird himself was wondering whether any of the others would be on the island. He knew that two of them, Hay and Colby, were at colleges in Melbourne and Arizona respectively; but Rice was working for PFI and might be around, and Bob had been seriously considering his help in the new problem.

  The Hunter was not thinking that far ahead. He was wondering whether Malmstrom, obviously available, could be trusted with the information he would need to be really helpful. The alien was inclined to doubt it. Of the five, Malmstrom had always seemed to him the least mature and reliable. It might or might not be relevant that he had not taken up the standing company offer of a college education for any of the island children, in return for a six-year contract after graduation. Many young people refused for reasons quite unconnected with intelligence. Still, Malmstrom seemed content with a low-responsibility job which demanded little of his imagination and brains, and the Hunter hoped that Bob would not get too enthusiastic on the strength of meeting the first of his old friends after a two-year absence.

  The enthusiasm was certainly there. The moment the taller youth saw Bob at the hatch, he dropped the line he was holding and sprang toward him.

  "Bob! You old bookworm! Are you back for good?" He shook hands violently, and he and Bob went through the back slapping routine which still bothered the Hunter after more than seven years. He knew the injury involved was negligible, but several human lifetimes of habit are hard to break.

  "I guess so," answered Kinnaird. "I haven't signed anything, yet, but might as well get my degree worked off as soon as possible. You knew I was coming, didn't you?"

  "Sure, but not just when. We really didn't expect Dulac and his Dumbo until tomorrow. When you were sighted, they phoned me to get down here and earn my dividend. Maybe I ought to get a job in the States, where work hours are a lot more definite. Out here they expect things to be done whenever they have to be done, no matter what time it is-even dinner time."

  "How do you like what you're doing?" asked Bob.

  "What more's to ask for? I sweat a few hours each day, get paid for it, and do what I want the rest of the time."

  The Hunter was not surprised by his answer, and hoped that his host would take it as evidence of Malmstrom's unsuitability for their project. Of course, there was no risk of premature disclosure with the present crowd around them-unless Bob collapsed- but it was always possible that words might escape which would be hard to cover up later, unless Bob shared the Hunter's doubts about "Shorty".

  In the hope of forestalling any such slip, the alien put a question of his own into Bob's ear.

  "How about Rice? Is he here on Ell?" Kinnaird could have answered his symbiont without attracting attention, but there seemed no need this time. He simply repeated the question aloud.

  "No, he's on Tahiti."

  "Working for PFI, of course."

  "Oh, sure. He gets over here every so often. I don't know just what he does, but it doesn't let him get outside much. I haven't seen anyone with lighter skin until you showed up. Doesn't the sun shine in the States any more?"

  "Some places. New England uses other things in its tourist literature."

  "Such as?"

  "Oh, its brain factories." Malmstrom had finished mooring the aircraft, and was helping Dulac get its cargo onto the float Bob had been removing his own luggage at the same time, doing his best to keep his physical condition from being too obvious. He did not succeed very well; both he and the Hunter were disturbed at Malmstrom's next remark.

  “They don't make muscles there, do they? You're pretty far out of shape, Bob old buddy."

  Kinnaird gave a shrug, covering as well as he could.

  "It's been quite a trip. I'll take you on in a few days, after I get tested up."

  The conversation was interrupted, to the relief of the Hunter and his host, by a shrill voice from the main causeway above.

  "Bob! What did you bring me?"

  The sun was just on the horizon, in Bob's eyes as he looked toward the dock, but he didn't need to see to identify the speaker. Daphne, his six-year-old sister, was plunging down the gangway at a rate which made the Hunter uneasy, even though he had no direct responsibility for the small creature's well-being.

  He remarked to his host, "If she had been around when I first met you, I'd have been led badly astray in our little problem."

  Bob chuckled; knowing what his symbiont meant The Hunter had been seeking a fugitive of his own species who had escaped into space. Pursued and pursuer had crashed near Ell; both had made their ways ashore and found human hosts. The Hunter had been faced with the task of locating the other without he
lp from his fellow police, without a background situation in which everybody harbored a symbiont of his own and took for granted that everyone else did, and without any of the technical equipment which would normally have helped him to locate his quarry and separate it from its host without harm to the latter. He had succeeded because the criminal had made no effort to train his host in elementary personal care. The symbionts were able to stop bleeding from injuries, to dispose of infecting microorganisms) and within limits even to minimize pain. Human beings like the humanoid species of the Hunter's home planet, tend to limit their behavior by what they find themselves getting away with; if sixty miles an hour doesn't hurt them, they are soon doing sixty-five.

  Arthur Kinnaird, Bob's father, by all accounts a normally cautious adult of his species, had become increasingly casual about situations offering personal danger. He had been getting away with everyday actions which should have given him cuts, sprains, bruises, splinters, even minor burns; he had expanded his behavior accordingly…

  That had been seven and a half Earth years ago. Now Arthur's daughter was acting as though nothing on the planet could hurt her. The Hunter might have wondered whether his old quarry had survived after all, but Daphne had been the same at the age of four; the Hunter did not criticize to Bob, but he felt that either her parents or her culture or both were taking better care of her than was strictly healthy. Whether he liked it or not, it was not his problem. He had made enough mistakes of his own, with his own host, and would have to solve the problems those had created, first. If he could. -

  Daphne swarmed up her brother, squirrel fashion, chattering. She was genuinely glad to see him; the question of what he had brought for her was not repeated. Bob, to the Hunter's relief, was able to support the forty pounds or so of her rather skinny form, but both symbiont and host were relieved when she dropped back to the float and took up a wild dance around him.