Through the Eye of a Needle n-2

by Hal Clement

  "Should I drop you overboard to cool you off, Silly?" her brother asked.

  "Go ahead. Mother wouldn't let me swim out, but if you do I'll just swim in."

  Bob made no attempt to continue the argument He captured the child, more or less immobilized her, and greeted his mother, who had descended the gangway more sedately.

  "Hi, Mom. You're here pretty quickly. Were you waiting for me?"

  "Just hoping. We heard the plane and biked down on the chance. I hope someone took pictures of your graduation; I wish we could have gone."

  "I have 'em. You're letting this monkey use a bike already? I'm surprised she didn't ride it down the plank."

  Daphne assumed an indignant expression, barely visible in the swiftly gathering darkness. "Of course not," she said. "I'm not allowed to ride the bike on the dock." "Good for you, Mom. I never thought rules would take with this one."

  She's no worse than you were,” his mother pointed out. "Locking up the bike a couple of times made her see reason. As I recall, with you and that deathtrap of a boat your friends had at first-”

  "All right. We were all young once." Let me play old-fashioned mother just this once. If you see my husband, tell him I'd rather he came right home without bothering about the luggage tonight."

  "Sure, Mrs. Kinnaird. I'll help with this stuff any ' time they don't have me doing something else. I sup pose some of it goes to the library, anyway."

  "Those two big ones," Bob pointed out

  "Did you really have to read all that? Glad I made the choice I did. I'll see you around, Bob; any idea what they'll have you doing?"

  "Well, I have a degree with high honors in chemical engineering from one of the most prestigious institutions east of the Hudson River, so they'll probably want to show me that there are eight experienced chemical, engineers on Ell already and that my muscles will be more useful to PFI than my brains for the next few years. We may be sweating side by side, for a while anyhow."

  "I can believe it." Malmstrom waved farewell as -the family group started up the gangway, and turned back to his work.

  Bob had uttered not a serious prophecy but rather his and the Hunter's major worry. It was quite likely that he would be assigned to the less pleasant and more physical aspects of his long-term job, and in his present condition he wouldn't last out the first day. Stage One of the complex plan they had been working out involved getting the help of the island doctor to forestall such an assignment. Seever was one of the few people who knew about the Hunter, and the alien and his host were counting heavily on both his sympathy and his professional knowledge in what was to come. The airplane float lay a quarter of a mile from shore along the causeway, and by the time the three walkers reached the inner end of the latter, darkness had fallen, though a gibbous moon made walking easy. With a sigh of relief, Daphne set down the suit-case she was carrying.

  "I can't take this on my bike," she pointed out. "You take it on yours, Mom, and I'll walk mine home with Bob."

  "You didn't bring mine?" asked her brother. "How could we? We were riding our own."

  "I'm glad there are still things I can teach you. Not right now, though; I'm kind of tired, and don't feel like walking all the way home." His mother looked anxious for a moment, but neither Bob nor the Hunter caught the expression.

  "You've been going a good many hours," she said. "I don't blame you. Daph, leave the bag here and go look for your father-yes, on your bike, as long as you stay with the streetlights. He's somewhere down at this end. Have him get a jeep and meet us here." The child obeyed without a word, her mother smiling after her.

  "She's not usually allowed to ride alone after dark. You've probably noticed the new lights-they're just here in the village, and go along the road only as far as the school, our way. How's the Hunter, son?

  Bob had no chance to answer. They were under one of the lights, at the point where the dock road met the one which ran the length of the island, and people had seen them. All of them knew Bob, and the island population-the older ones, this time-rapidly gathered to welcome him back and ask about his college life. The Hunter was completely uninterested in the conversation, quite worried about his host's chances of remaining on his feet long enough to reach his home, and annoyed at his own feeling of helplessness.

  Eventually a jeep whipped down the road from the northwest and pulled to a stop beside the group. Bob's father and sister emerged, the latter ducking behind her mother without making any effort to recover the bicycle in the vehicle's back seat. Arthur Kinnaird, rather brusquely but without actual rudeness, broke up the gathering.

  "Evening, Ben-Hi, Maria-Hello, everyone-Bob, hop in. We'll go out and get your stuff. Small fry, get your bike and go home with your mother. We'll be there as soon as you are. Sorry to take him away, folks, but he's been traveling long enough to need sleep. We won't even talk to him ourselves until tomorrow."

  "I don't think he's right about that," the Hunter remarked to Bob as they started out the causeway. "You're not going to be able to carry luggage, and that's going to have to be explained to your father, at least."

  But at first it seemed that no immediate explanation would be necessary, and the Hunter began to hope. Arthur Kinnaird insisted on his son's staying in the jeep while he made two trips down to the float. If Bob had been paying close attention to what he brought up, the explanation might have been put off until the next day: he did not need the footlocker that remained on the float, and if they had driven straight home after hi3 father's first two trips, Bob would have had just enough strength to get inside the house. But his father made a third trip down to the float. He found, besides the footlocker, only the book crates which were obviously too large to attempt. He put his hand into one of the straps at the end, and gave an exclamation of pain. "Bob! Bring the flash-light down here, will you?"

  The trip down the plank had to be made carefully, but Bob was still on his feet when they reached the bottom.

  "What's the matter, Dad?" he asked. The elder Kinnaird removed his hand from his mouth long enough to answer.

  "Cut myself on something under that locker handle. Take a look, will you?" He bent over to look himself as his son directed the flashlight beam to the indicated Spot. The source of the cut was obvious enough. "I didn't think we had anyone like that on the island,"

  Arthur Kinnaird remarked. "Could it have happened anywhere else along the way?" The lid of the this metal box had been pried roughly outward, and the stretched part of it's edge had torn to form a jagged V-shaped notch, its two corners projecting Just above the loop of leather which formed the handle.

  "I'm not a professional baggage thief, but that seems a silly way to go about it," replied his son. "You'd think anyone wanting to get at the contents would work on the latch or the hinges."

  "What's in it?"

  "Don't remember exactly, but nothing extra valuable. Mostly clothes, maybe some of the books for the library, though they're mostly in the big cases. I'd have to check to be sure. I accumulated a lot of junk while I was away, and I couldn't bear to throw much of it out, with PFI paying the freight home. Are you hurt much?”

  "I'll live. Too bad you hadn't been working on carrying the footlocker. I suppose your friendly, lump of green jelly is still with you-sorry I didn't say hello to you, Hunter, but you aren't that obvious."

  "Yes, he's here still. If your cut's bad enough, we can-"

  "It's not that serious. We can leave this thing here, for now, since you don't think it has anything important. Let's try to get home before the ladies."

  Bob hesitated; he was very near the limit.

  "I'm not sure I can get myself up the gangway again," he admitted at last, knowing that now he could not put off explaining his weakness.

  "Humph. Your sister said you looked bushed. Was the trip that bad?"

  "Even Silly noticed it? We were hoping she wouldn't. No, it wasn't the trip. It's more complicated, and I'm sure we're going to have to get Doc Seever in on it."

  "You've be
en hurt? Something the Hunter couldn't fix, or hasn't had time to fix?"

  "Not hurt. There hasn't been any accident. It's been coming on for a long time. I'll tell you and Mom about it after Silly's in bed; it'd be too much trying to make her understand-or have you told her about the Hunter?"

  "Decidedly not. Come on; let's get you back to the car. Do you mean you have some kind of disease that the Hunter can't handle?"

  "On the contrary, you might say. Sorry to put it so bluntly, little friend, but-Dad, the Hunter has caused the trouble. What he or we or anyone can do is a wide-open question."

  No more words were spoken the rest of the way up the plank.

  2. Details

  In spite of what had happened at the dock, the jeep reached the Kinnaird home very shortly behind the bicycles. The few minutes rest as they drove restored Bob enough to let him get into the house without assistance, though the luggage stayed in the car for the moment.

  The suitcase Daphne had carried was of course inside; her mother had yielded to the pressure, and carried it home on her own bicycle. The child promptly dragged it over to the couch on which her brother had thankfully collapsed.

  She wanted it opened at once, of course, and the resulting activities filled the time until food was served. Every minute of rest that Bob could get was good, of course and it was fortunate that Daphne was content to let him stay on the couch and hand out presents- very much plural, to the little girl's delight-which made up most of the contents of the suitcase.

  The Hunter was getting quite impatient by the time she was sent to bed. Mrs. Kinnaird was perfectly aware that something was wrong by this time, though her husband had spoken only a word or two to her after his arrival; she, too, wanted to hear the details. Eventually, protesting but not really resentful, Daphne was dismissed upstairs to what had formerly been her brother's room. Fortunately, since he could certainly not have handled stairs too many times a day, Bob was to sleep in a wing which his father had built at the back of the house during the past year-largely a matter of luck, since he certainly had not foreseen his son's troubles.

  Eventually the child was quiet, and the rest of the family was able to get down to business. Bob had long ago planned what he should say. The Hunter knew that he wouldn't enjoy listening, since the words could not possibly make him look very good, but was mature enough to face the situation. It was the mother who opened the conversation, after a final trip upstairs to make sure the child was asleep.

  "You're not just tired, are you, Bob? There's something more serious."

  "I'm afraid so, Mom," was the answer. "I don't know just how serious-it might drag on for a long time, but it wouldn't be very smart to count on that.

  This actually started before I was home two years ago. It wasn't very bad then, and it didn't seem a good idea to worry either you or Doc Seever with it, but it's been getting worse ever since, and something really has to be done now."

  "Does the Hunter have a reliable prognosis? I mean, has he encountered this sort of thing before?" Bob's father cut in.

  "Not personally, he says. He's heard about it historically; when his species meets a new type of host it wouldn't have happened now if he were a doctor instead of a detective. Let me give it to you. From the beginning." Both his parents nodded their approval.

  "You both know what the Hunter and his people are like-about four pounds of something vaguely like human protoplasm, but made of molecule-sized units instead of the relatively huge, cells of our tissue. His people can live independently, at least on their own planet, but normally exist inside the body of a larger creature in a state of symbiosis. The Hunter has been doing that with me for years, sharing the food I eat, seeing through my eyes, hearing with my ears, and paying for his keep by destroying invading germs, stopping blood loss from cuts, and so on. Also, he's a personal friend, though not as close as we might be on his home world; we don't have the facilities here which would let him live a normal life, and we don't have very similar interests. He's a detective, and his partner at home was also a police official; he went through my chemical and other courses in college with me, but didn't enjoy them as much as I did. On his world, partners don't join up until they've known each other for a long time. Here, he didn't have much choice.

  "His people have had contact, since they've developed space travel, with other more or less humanlike races, and have been able to carry on the same sort of life-sharing with these. It's not so routine, though. No two planets, as far as their experience goes, seem to produce fife with identical chemistry, and a lot has to be learned before the symbiosis really goes smoothly.

  "Naturally, the Hunter's partnership with me is in the less well organized category. He was never completely sure that he wouldn't do me some harm. We're enough like the other humanoids he's known so that he could recognize and offset my normal immunity reactions in about the same way he was used to, and of course with him there I didn't need them-he could take care of infections, just the same, he would check every few days to make sure his neutralization of my immune response to him hadn't had more general effects, for example, if I got a splinter in my finger he'd wait to make sure my body reacted normally before he cleaned up the intruding bacteria.

  A couple of years ago, I failed one of those tests. I got badly infected from a minor scratch, and the Hunter found that my immunity chemistry just wasn't working at all any more. He took its place, of course; there was no danger as long as he was with me. Of course, if anything were to happen to him-" Bob didn't finish, but his parents nodded.

  They remembered the circumstances which had caused them to learn about the Hunter-Seever, the island doctor, had been the only one Bob had let into the secret before the police project had been concluded. Bob had bluffed the alien fugitive into leaving his father's body, and destroyed the creature by fire; but the departure had been very hasty. A short time later, Arthur Kinnaird had fallen ill. The symptoms were a blend of pneumonia and meningitis, and Seever had been mystified. Eventually, he and Bob had persuaded the reluctant Hunter to transfer to Arthur Kinnaird's body to investigate.

  The problem had been straightforward enough; virus like cells left behind by the fugitive in its hasty departure had lost the control and coordination of an intelligent creature and were simply living without regard for the welfare of their host-the sort of thing, on a much cruder level, which the organism originating them had done and which had made it a criminal by the standards of its species. The Hunter had had no trouble incorporating the units into his own structure. Seever had felt it necessary to give the whole story to Bob's mother, who was quite intelligent enough to recognize and be bothered by any half-truths; and later on, when her husband had regained his senses, he had also been told. Under the circumstances they had little choice about believing, and had eventually come to take the Hunter for granted-even addressing him directly at times, though of course their son had to transmit any answers.

  "In a way," Bob went on, “I'm a sort of addict of my symbiont. It's not just the immunity thing, now. Other parts of my personal chemistry keep going hay-wire every few months. Sometimes the Hunter can spot the actual cause and do something about it, sometimes he has to use his own abilities in a way not really related to my own body's handling of the same problem-for example, the way he handles infection by consuming the organisms responsible instead of chemical neutralization.

  "He's described the whole thing as a juggling act. As time goes on, he has to devote more and more, effort and attention to keeping my machinery going. Quite often some step he takes interferes with, one or more of the things that he's already doing; or that my own biochemistry is normally doing. Unless we can find some fairly simple key cause for all this and do something effective about it-well, he admits, that sooner or later the juggler is bound to drop a plate."

  "I suppose he can't just withdraw entirely and let nature take care of the situation," Mrs. Kinnaird asked.

  "Nature isn't that interested in me," her son replied. "The juggling
act is just what every living body goes into, and drops out of, sooner or later. Letting things go on their own and shutting eyes and ears may produce 'natural' results, but there's no way to be sure your own survival is included in the meaning of 'natural.' Knowledge is what is needed if you hope for things to go your way."

  "But surely the Hunter has the knowledge! You told us he could identify thousands, maybe millions, of chemicals-even unbelievably complex things like proteins-by his own senses. He can produce lots of them deliberately. You once said that if you got diabetes he could take over the making of insulin for you."

  "I did, I do, and he does. He can do a lot. He is doing a lot, but he has his limits, and they're a long way short of complete takeover of the chemical machinery of a human body. What you miss is the fact that, unbelievable as his abilities are, the complexity of the problem is even more unbelievable. You're more realistic than the weirdoes who think you can heal a burn by shining the proper color of light on it, but you're still not really in touch with the problem."

  "Then this weakness of yours is a continuing thing?" Bob's father asked.

  "Not exactly-that is, I'm not weak and tired all time. One of the plates that's slipping has something to do with my muscles. The Hunter can't spot anything specifically wrong with them, or with their individual cells, or with the way the cells are interacting and using food, or with the nerves connected with them; but after I've started to get tired-only a little tired, or what should make me only a little tired, they just lose power. The Hunter not only can't sense the cause, he can't even provide a makeshift remedy like delivering sugar or other necessities to the cells directly-it doesn't work. It isn't a matter of getting more fuel to the cells, or running stronger messages along the nerves, or a lot of other things-he could tell us thousands of things it isn't."

  There was silence for many minutes.

  The older people could not, of course, believe that there was no solution to the problem. This was their child. No longer really a child, and not even their only one, but theirs. They had taken for granted that he would still be alive when their own jugglers dropped the last plate. They would have been embarrassed to say aloud that there had to be an answer, but neither could think along any other line. Neither thought consciously of blaming the Hunter for what had happened, though the wife thought fleetingly that it would have been nice if the alien had chosen to take up existence with the doctor after completion of his police project-Seever might have been able to take effective steps while the problem was still simple. She never brought this point up aloud, however. It was she who finally broke the silence. "What do you and the Hunter plan to do, now that you're here?" she asked. ''You must have a plan- you'd be looking even worse than you do, without one."