Robert Sawyer - Foreigner

Toroca looked at the dead body. It had been badly mauled. Before coming out of the territorial madness, Keenir had bolted down three large strips of flesh, cleaning the neck, shoulders, and most of the back of meat.

Toroca had backed away and was now about twenty paces from Keenir. “Why did you kill it?” he said.

The captain’s voice was low. “I—I don’t know. It—it must have invaded my territory…”

Toroca’s tail swished in negation. “No. It was nowhere near you. You saw it, and went, well, berserk.”

“It was evil. It had to die. It was a threat.”

“How, Keenir? How did it threaten you?”

Keenir’s voice was faint. “It had to die,” he said again. He staggered toward the lapping water at the edge of the beach, crouched down, and tried to wash his hands. The water turned pink, but his hands weren’t really coming clean. He scooped up some wet sand and rubbed it over them, scouring the blood away. He kept rubbing his hands, so much so that Toroca thought they’d end up covered in the captain’s own blood, but at last he stopped. He splashed water on his face in an attempt to clean his muzzle.

There was a point where the lush vegetation stuck right out to the water’s edge. Suddenly there was movement in that brush, and for one horrible moment Toroca thought it was another of the strange yellow creatures, come to avenge its comrade’s death. But it was only Babnol and Spalton, the other two surveyors, who had made their own landing south of here.

But then he saw their faces.

Muzzles slick with blood.

“Toroca,” said Babnol, her voice tremulous. “I think Spalton and I just did a terrible thing…”

By now, Afsan’s eyes had grown back to full size, black orbs filling the once-empty sockets. His lids had sagged for so long that they’d developed permanent fold marks that showed as yellow lines now that they were filled out from underneath.

And yet, despite his new eyes, Afsan still could not see.

After his lunch with Dybo, Afsan walked the short distance to the imperial surgery and once again opened his lids so that Dar-Mondark could look at his new eyes.

“And you still can’t see anything?” said Mondark.

“That’s right.”

“Not even vague shapes? No hint of light? Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Your eyes look fine, Afsan. They look like they should work.”

Afsan’s tail swished gently. “When I was young, I once traded some time tutoring mathematics for a toy boat that I was enamored with. The boat was beautifully carved from soft stone and looked correct in every way. Only one problem: when I put it in a pond, it sank. It was good at everything except the one thing that defined its purpose.” He tipped his head. “Eyes that do everything well except see aren’t of much value, are they?”

Mondark nodded. “That’s true. But, Afsan, your eyes are seeing: they are responding to light. Now, yes, perhaps there is some problem with the way your new eyes are connected to the rest of your body. But as far as I can tell, your eyes are fully restored.”

“Then God is having Her revenge on me,” said Afsan, his tone only half-jesting. “A cruel joke, no? To give back eyes, only to have them not function.”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps nothing, Doctor. I’m not a medical expert, but clearly there’s something wrong with the nerves that connect my eyes to my brain.”

“In ordinary cases of blindness, I’d concur. But this isn’t ordinary. Your eyes are responding to light, and they’re tracking as though they can see. They would do neither of those things if there were extensive nerve damage.”

“But I tell you, I’m not seeing anything.”

“Exactly. Which brings us to another possibility.” Mondark paused, as if reluctant to go on.

“Yes?” said Afsan impatiently.

“Do you know the word ‘hysteria’?”

“No.”

“That’s not surprising; it’s a fairly new medical term. Hysteria refers to a neurosis characterized by physical symptoms, such as paralysis, that don’t seem to have any organic cause.”

Afsan sounded suspicious. “For instance?”

“Oh, there have been several cases over the kilodays. A person may lose the use of a limb even though the limb appears to be uninjured. And yet the person simply stops being able to move, for instance, his or her right arm.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Well, it does happen. It used to be if your arm stopped working, they’d hack it off in hopes that the regenerated arm would function. Sometimes that worked—if there had been damage to the nerves in the arm. But sometimes the arm would grow back just as dead as it had been before.”

“But surely the paralysis would have been caused by a stroke or something similar.”

“Ah, there’s the rub,” said Mondark. “When paralysis is caused by a stroke, it affects general parts of the body. Oh, the right arm might be completely paralyzed, but there will also be numbness in the right leg, and perhaps the right side of the face. But in hysterical paralysis, only the arm seems dead. The loss of sensation is quite abrupt, beginning, say, precisely at the shoulder, and affecting no other part of the body.”

“Go on,” said Afsan.

“Well, there are also cases of hysterical blindness: eyes that are in working order that simply no longer function.”

“And you think that’s the case here? That my blindness is caused by… by hysteria?”

“It’s possible. Your eyes physically can see, but your mind refuses to see.”

“Nonsense, Mondark. I want to see. I’ve wanted to see since the very day I was blinded.”

“Consciously, yes. But your subconscious—? Well, this isn’t my area of expertise, but there is a doctor who has had some success curing these matters, Afsan. She’s helped several people regain the use of arms or legs.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Afsan. “If my eyes are malfunctioning, the problem is physical. It’s that simple.”

“Perhaps,” said Mondark. “But what have you got to lose by visiting her?”

“Time,” said Afsan. “I’m getting old, Mondark, and there is much that I wish to accomplish still.”

Mondark grunted. “Humor me, Afsan. Meet with this person.”

“I have been humoring you. I’ve been coming here every ten days to let you look at these useless eyes.”

“And I thank you for that. But consider how lucky you are: almost no one who loses eyes gets them back. To give up now would be a horrible mistake. If there’s a chance—any chance at all—that you might be able to see again, you owe it to yourself to pursue it.”

“I owe it to myself to be a realist,” said Afsan. “That’s the principle that has guided my entire life. I’m too old to change now.”

“Do a favor for an old friend, Afsan. Indeed, do yourself a favor. At least arrange a consultation with Nav-Mokleb.”

“Mokleb?” said Afsan, startled.

“You’ve heard of her?”

“Well, yes. Dybo has been after me to talk with her as well. Says she might be able to do something about the bad dreams I’ve been having.”

“Those continue to plague you?”

“Yes.”

Mondark’s tail swished across the floor. “That settles it. Go to Rockscape. I’ll contact Mokleb and send her out to see you.”

“Dybo already has her coming out tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” said Mondark. “Who knows? Maybe she’ll be able to cure both your bad dreams and your blindness.”

There was no need for Novato to wait until morning; working inside the alien ark could be done as easily at night as day. It was even-night, anyway, the night upon which Novato usually did not sleep. She went to find Den-Garios, an old friend from Capital province who had long worked with her on the exodus project. They fetched two fresh lanterns and re-entered the ship, moving quickly down the corridors.