Joe Haldeman: Worlds Enough and Time

“Murchinson’s Syndrome involves a rapid and irreversible breakdown of the immune system. There’s no actual treatment for it.”

Eliot’s voice was almost inaudible. “How long?”

“It could be months. Or it could be weeks or days. Eventually a single rhinovirus… would be sufficient.”

“You could be isolated. Sealed off from any disease vectors.”

He shook his head. “I thought of that. As unpleasant as living out the rest of my days in a space suit would be. But like anybody, I’m carrying around a large number of disease factors that are currently more or less kept in check. As the doctor put it, there is no way to isolate a person from his own body. When the immune system weakens sufficiently, one of those factors will kill me.

“Most of you know me well enough to know that I would appreciate a minimum of sympathy and condolence. Of course I feel chagrined, cheated. Betrayed by my own body. I was looking forward to at least another half-century of observing this splendid experiment in economic isolation. But of course this does come to all of us sooner or later, and I have no new insight to offer about that.

“Fortunately, I have been working closely with my Coordinator-elect, Tania Seven, and over the course of the next few days I shall be transferring all of my responsibilities over to her in an orderly way.” Seven was sitting in the front row, and had shown no reaction; Purcell must have already discussed it with her. “I would also like to work closely with her in selecting the new candidates for Coordinator-elect.” She nodded. He paused. “I suppose that ends the formal part of this meeting. Good-bye.” He stepped down from the stage and walked out.

The rest of the meeting was short and quiet. Tom Smith and I did some preliminary hashing out of a procurement system that might simplify life for both of us (Education shares a lot of material with Entertainment, but we have separate storage areas, nearly a kilometer apart). I would have someone from John’s office go over the proposed design changes for the next couple of years and see whether Tom and I could get offices close to a large enough storage volume to hold all of our stuff in one place. I’d miss the luxury of Uchūden, but it would save a lot of time.

Evy was waiting outside in the corridor. She’d never heard of Murchinson’s Syndrome, but she had her keyboard with her. She unfolded it and asked.

The disease had never been reported on Earth. Over the past century there had been two cases in New New and one in Devon’s World; every victim had been at least third-generation spaceborn.

“That’s a little scary,” I said. “Cosmic rays?”

John laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about it. People probably did get it on Earth, but it was misdiagnosed. As Harry said, whatever bug’s next in line is the one he’ll actually die of.”

“Let’s talk about something morbid.” Dan looked at me. “Are you going to throw your hat in the ring?”

“Hat?” Evy said.

“It’s an Americanism; run for office. No. I thought about it for a fraction of a second. No, thanks.”

“You’d be good.”

“Someday. Most people would think I’m too young.”

“Tania Seven’s about your age.”

“The hell she is.”

Evy primped her short kinky hair. “You white people age so fast.”

“I’ll age you! ” I turned back to Dan. “Besides, I don’t want to give up the Cabinet position.” That was a precondition for running, though the logic of it has always eluded me. If I won Coordinator-elect, it would be two years before I was Coordinator. Plenty of time to train someone to pass out the volleyballs.

(It made even less sense on the Engineering side, since every Cabinet member is in essence a lobbyist for one academic specialty’s research needs. When the Coordinator-elect takes office, that specialty automatically has two people arguing for their slice of the more-or-less fixed pie of resources and personnel available for research. A couple of years ago I submitted a proposal that the process be reversed: have the Coordinator-elect continue to sit as a Cabinet member, so as to keep all the influences more or less even. The Engineering track didn’t see much merit in the proposal. I think that’s because they like to gamble—every two years they get a chance to double their influence.)

We argued a little bit more about my running, Evy as usual on my side; Dan thinking that I was old enough and John claiming that age wouldn’t be important. I told Dan that he only wanted me to do it because he’d had to go through a term as Coordinator in New New, and misery loved company.

When I got back to the office there was a note on my message queue from Purcell; he wanted to see John and Dan and me after dinner. I could think of a few thousand things I’d rather do with my evening. But as it turned out, the experience was at least informative, if not pleasant. We even managed to bury the hatchet, in a way, and not in each other. He was never a particularly graceful man, but most people agree that he handled his exit well.

We joined him in a small teaching lab on Level 5, racks of glassware in place for some arcane demonstration. There was a trace of sulfur dioxide in the air, as there usually seemed to be in such places, and it gave me an instant headache, as usual. I think John and Dan thrive on it. A homey sort of smell for science types, like bread baking.

Purcell was leaning against a sink, studying some small wire contraption. He nodded to me but talked only to John and Dan, mostly filling them in on his assessment of Tania Seven, and how her training and prejudices might affect their jurisdictions. It was an odd coincidence that they held two of the only Engineering-track Cabinet positions that required daily contact with the Policy Coordinator’s office. I was Policy track, but could probably survive for months without bothering the Coordinator.

It was interesting to eavesdrop on them, and interesting that I was allowed to. Purcell was a cold-blooded manipulator—one who wanted to keep manipulating from the grave!—but he was also a solid if cynical judge of character. I was wondering out of what obscure motivation he had invited me along, when he abruptly dismissed John and Dan, saying he had to talk to me alone.

He was a great one for amenities. “I don’t like you, Marianne, but then I don’t like many people. Including myself.”

“Dr. Purcell—”

“You might as well call me Harry. You won’t have to for long.” He tossed the little wire thing onto a table, watching its slow third-gee trajectory rather than look at me. “Daniel thinks you would be a good prospect for Policy Coordinator-elect. Don’t run.”

“I already told him I wouldn’t. I’m not old enough.”

“You’re old enough. You’re competent. But there are a lot of people in this can—like me—who are rather hostile toward you.”

“Can’t please everybody.”

“That’s not the point. I rarely please anybody, but here I am.” The wire thing bounced and he snatched it out of the air with a surprisingly swift motion. “It’s not your personality, or that you’ve been unfair or imprudent.” He allowed himself a tiny smile. “Though your sex life, such of it as has come to my attention, seems… lurid. By my standards.”

“I have my own standards.”

“As I say, that’s not the problem. It’s much more subtle than that, and it’s complex, multiplex, and you have to do something about it before you run for office. Because the chances are you will win, and the results of your tenure could be disastrous.”

“I’m listening.” Hearing, anyhow.

“Number one. You’re an idealist. That’s attractive in the young.”

“You’re saying a leader can’t be an idealist?”