Charles Sheffield - Proteus in the Underworld

“If you’re thinking along your usual one-track, I have no idea. We did nothing but talk about the problem that I’ve been assigned at the office.”

“The mystery problem that you can’t talk about to us. Hmm. But you talk to Wolf or you think you talk. Let me remind you of something. Studies in Form Control, Lesson Three: A human being is at least ninety-eight percent subconscious mind and at most two percent conscious mind. The conscious two percent spends much of its time trying to explain, after the fact and in logical terms, what the ninety-eight percent subconscious mind decided to do and did. Speech is a function of the conscious mind. It is impossible for the whole transfer of information during a meeting of two humans, or even the bulk of such transfer, to be limited to speech alone. You think you just talked, but from the look of you Wolf did a whole lot more to you than that.”

Sondra had never been too impressed with that particular section of the training course, and Gipsy hadn’t quoted it correctly; but she could not forget those intense final few minutes on Wolf Island. “He’s not at all the way you’re thinking. He’s old.”

“How old?”

“Middle seventies, according to his file.”

“And he’s dropped his form-conditioning?” Gipsy suddenly sounded horrified. “That’s suicide.”

“I don’t think so. He looks like he takes regular sessions in the tanks. He’s strange, but he’s not crazy.”

“Then he’s good for at least another fifty years. Plenty of mileage left in him once you get him going.”

“Don’t be crude. Anyway, you don’t understand. He doesn’t look old, his form is maybe thirty and very fit. But he acts ancient. Cold, and remote and superior, and sort of turned off.”

“Maybe women turn him off.” Gipsy went wandering across toward the message center as though she had lost interest in the conversation; but one eye was still on Sondra. “Maybe he prefers men.”

“No way!” Sondra raised her head and glared. “I’m sure he doesn’t.”

“Well, if you’re that sure.” Gipsy seemed pleased with herself as she bent over the center. “There’s still hope. Hey, don’t you ever check for messages? You’ve had one waiting here for hours.”

“From Bey Wolf?” Sondra had not even thought about messages when she rushed in.

“Dream on. It’s from the boss. Wonder what dear Denzel wants with you. Like me to call it out?” They knew Sondra’s code, just as she knew theirs. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Sondra moved to Gypsy’s side, waiting for the message to be recalled. Typical of Morrone, it was in written rather than oral form.

From: Headquarters, Office of Form Control.

TO: SONDRA DEARBORN.

SUBJECT: FAILURE OF HUMANITY TEST.

MY OFFICE RECEIVED NEWS FOUR HOURS AGO OF ANOTHER UNFORTUNATE SITUATION IN THE CARCON COLONY. OFFSPRING SUCCESSFULLY PASSED THE HUMANITY TEST BUT WAS PROVED NON-HUMAN BY ITS SUBSEQUENT BEHAVIOR. THIS IS, AS YOU KNOW, THE THIRD SUCH FAILURE, OTHERS HAVING OCCURRED IN THE CARCON AND ALSO IN THE FUGATE COLONY.

EARLIER TODAY I RECEIVED A QUERY FROM THE UNITED SPACE FEDERATION VIA THE PLANETARY COORDINATORS, ASKING WHY THERE HAS BEEN NO ON-SITE INVESTIGATION OF THIS CASE. THAT QUESTION SEEMS VERY APPROPRIATE. IT IS TWO MONTHS SINCE THE CASE WAS ASSIGNED TO YOU. WHY HAVE YOU NOT VISITED EITHER THE CARCON OR THE FUGATE COLONY IN PERSON? I LOOK FORWARD TO YOUR PROMPT REPLY AND EXPLANATION. IT WILL FORM PART OF YOUR OFFICIAL RECORD WITH THE OFFICE OF FORM CONTROL.

“The bastard! The absolute bastard.”

“What has he done?” Gipsy could hear rare rage in Sondra’s tone. The message meant nothing to her.

“Screwed me.”

“Since it’s Denzel Morrone, I know you’re being metaphorical. Screwed you how?”

“First he refuses me permission to go out to the Kuiper Belt, says it’s not necessary. Now he turns around and blames me because I haven’t already been.”

“Covering his ass. See there, he says he had a query from the Planetary Coordinators. Standard creepy-Denzel operating procedure. What are you going to do?”

“Head for the Kuiper Belt and the colonies. But first—”

“Watch it, Sondra. Don’t throw your job away.”

“It’s all right. I’m not going after Morrone—that slimy scum can sit and fester until I’m ready to talk with him. But I need help, big-time. Before I leave I have to take one last shot at Bey Wolf.”

“We’ll help you pack.” The hands and head of the commensal gave a sudden twitch. Dill was awake and had joined the group. “Mm. Looks like I arrived just in time-before you do your usual trick and run off with all my clean underwear.”

“I don’t know why you worry, Dill.” Sondra started to throw bits and pieces into a travel bag. “By the time I get back you should be through body crossover. You won’t be my size then—Gipsy will.”

One last shot at Bey Wolf. It felt more and more that way when Sondra reached Wolf Island and found it deserted.

She had contacted Bey’s message center, just as he had told her to, but only a machine had answered. And when she arrived at the lonely beach after a top-speed flight from the Cocos Islands link point, only the two hounds greeted her.

Sondra grabbed her travel bag and her thin brown satchel of data records and headed along the jetty. Before leaving the apartment she had downloaded everything on the new form-change problem and booked a rapid transit to the Carcon Colony. In less than fourteen hours she had to be at the spaceport and heading for orbit.

She peered at the two mastiff hounds as they gamboled about her on the beach. Something looked different about them. Or about one of them.

“Here, Janus! Good dog.” Sondra grabbed the hound by the collar and made a closer inspection of its underbelly. Hadn’t both dogs been male on her previous visits? But those nipples told a different story. Janus was now. certainly a bitch.

Well, it didn’t prove much. Sex-change didn’t imply form-change experiments; it could be done easily and routinely with pure chemical treatments. Sondra headed on up the beach.

His house when she reached it was silent and deserted. It was also unlocked and open, as though Bey was either somewhere inside or had stepped away for a few minutes. Just when she urgently needed to see him.

She called his name at the front door. No response. She went inside and called again. After a few more minutes of waiting and prowling the main floor she helped herself to a drink and a sandwich-it felt like days since she had eaten.

Still no sign of him.

Maybe he was in his basement lab. Retired or not, he certainly spent a lot of time there, and it might be pretty well sound-proof. Feeling like an intruder-but even more impatient and annoyed at the owner’s absence-Sondra descended to the house s lower levels. There she confirmed the impression of her earlier visit: the basement’s form-change tanks had seen some odd modifications, surely put in by Bey, but they were as sophisticated as you would find anywhere. Unfortunately there was no sign of the man himself.

She returned to the main floor and went back to the message center. The lights were blinking. One of the messages would be from her. Maybe one of the others would tell where Bey was, and when he would be back. She reached out one hand, then stood dithering. She had no right in the world to read Bey Wolfs private mail. But time was short, and she couldn’t afford to waste it.

A difficult decision was avoided when the machine became active without any touch from her. She found herself staring at Beys startled image on the display.

The surprise was mutual. Sondra pressed the transmission button and started to explain why she was inside Bey’s home, but before she was halfway through he cut her off. He didn’t sound impatient. Just super-furious.