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promptly lost interest in the conversation. The portly man paused, shrugged, and then
drifted off.
"What was that all about?" Dalt asked. "What did he say that was so un-Tolivian?"
"As I told you before, we have a different way of looking at things. The human race
developed on a tiny planet a good many light-years away and devised a technology that
allows us to sit in orbit above a once-alien planet and comfortably sip intoxicants while
awaiting a ship to take us down. As a member of that race, I assure you, I feel anything
but insignificant."
Dalt glanced after the man who had initiated the discussion and noticed him stagger
as he walked away. He widened his stance as if to steady himself and stood blinking at
nothing, beads of sweat dropping from his face and darkening the blue of his jumper.
Suddenly he spun with outstretched arms, and with a face contorted with horror, began
to scream incoherently.
El bolted from her seat without a word and dug a microsyringe from her hip pouch as
she strode toward the man, who had by now collapsed into a blubbering, whimpering
puddle of fear. She placed the ovid device on the skin on the lateral aspect of his neck
and squeezed.
"He'll quiet down in a minute," she told a concerned steward as he rushed up. "Send
him down to IMC Central on the next shuttle for emergency admission to Section Blue."
The steward nodded obediently, relieved that someone seemed to feel that things were
under control. And sure enough, by the time two fellow workers had arrived, the portly
man was quiet, although still racked with sobs.
"What the hell happened to him?" Dalt asked over El's shoulder as the man was
carried to a berth in the rear.
"A bad case of the horrors," she replied. "No, I'm serious."
"So am I. It's been happening all over the human sector of the galaxy, just like that:
men, women, all ages; they go into an acute, unremitting psychotic state. They are
biochemically normal and usually have unremarkable premorbid medical histories.
They've been popping up for the past decade in a completely random fashion and there
doesn't seem to be a damn thing we can do about them," she said with a set jaw, and it
was obvious that she resented being helpless in any situation, especially a medical one.
Dalt gazed at El and felt the heaviness begin. She was a remarkable woman, very
intelligent, very opinionated, and so very much like Jean in appearance; but she was
also very mortal. Dalt had resisted the relationship she was obviously trying to initiate
and every time he weakened he merely had to recall Jean's hate-contorted face when he
had deserted her.
I think we ought to get out of microbiology, he told Pard as his eyes lingered on El.
("And into what?")
How about life prolongation?
("Not that again!")
Yes! Only this time we'll be working at IMC Central with some of the greatest scientific minds
in the galaxy.
("The greatest minds in the galaxy have always worked on that problem, and every
'major breakthrough' and 'new hope' has turned out to be a dead end. Human cells reach
a certain level of specialization and then lose their ability to reproduce. Under optimum
conditions, a century is all they'll last; after that the DNA gets sloppy and consequently
the RNA gets even sloppier. What follows is enzyme breakdown, toxic overload, and
finally death. Why this happens, no one knows and that includes me, since my
consciousness doesn't reach to the molecular level and from recent literature, it doesn't
seem likely that anyone'll know in the near future.")
But we have a unique contribution to make ("You think I haven't investigated it on my
own, if not for any other reason than to provide you with a human companion of some
permanence? It's no fun, you know, when you go into those periods of black despair.")
I guess not. He paused. I think one's on its way.
("I know. The metabolic warning flags are already up. Look: why not take up with
this woman? You both find each other attractive and I think it will be good for you.")
Will it be good for me when she grows into a bitter old woman while I stay young?
("What makes you think she'll want you around that long?") Pard jibed.
Dalt had no answer for that one.
The shuttle trip was uneventful and when El offered to drive him from the spaceport
to his hotel, Dalt reluctantly accepted. His feelings were in a turmoil, wanting to be
simultaneously as close to and as far from this woman as possible. So to keep the
conversation safe and light, he made a comment about the lack of flitters in the air.
"We're still pretty much in the ground-car stage, although one of the car factories is
reportedly gearing for flitter production. It'll be nice to get one at a reasonable price; the
only ones on Tolive now were shipped via interstellar freight and that is expensive!"
She pulled her car alongside a booth outside the spaceport perimeter, fished out a
card, and stuck it into a slot. The card disappeared for a second or two and then the
booth spat it out. El retrieved it, sealed her bubble, and pulled away.
"What was that all about?"
"Toll."
Dalt was incredulous. "You mean you actually have toll roads on this planet?"
She nodded. "But not for long ... not if we get a good supply of flitters."
"Even so, the roads belong to everybody "
"No, they belong to those who built them."
"But taxes "
"You think roads should be built with tax money?" El asked with a penetrating
glance. "I use this road maybe once or twice a year; why should I pay anything for it the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]