Robert Silverberg - Thorns

An idle command.

O, no, it will not harbour me!

The silent knives whirled. The nuclei of the medulla, receiving impulses from the vestibular mechanism of the ear—gone. The basal ganglia. The sulci and the gyri. The bronchi with their cartilaginous rings. The alveoli, the wondrous sponges. Epiglottis. Vas deferens. Lymphatic vessels. Dendrites and axons. The doctors were quite curious: how does this marvelous creature work? What composes him?

They unstrung him until he was spread out etherized on a table, extending an infinite distance. Was he still alive at that point? Bundles of nerves, bushels of intestine. Now, body, turn to air, or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell! O soul, be chang’d into little water-drops, and fall into the ocean, ne’er be found!

Patiently they had restored him. Tediously did they reconstruct him, improving where minded on the original model. And then, no doubt in great pride, they of Manipool had returned him to his people.

Come not, Lucifer!

“Consult Aoudad,” the apparition advised.

Aoudad? Aoudad?

The room stank. Its stink was vile. Wondering if the man ever troubled to ventilate, Bart Aoudad subtly introduced an olfactory depressant into his system. The brain would function as keenly as ever; it had better. But the nostrils would cease for the moment to report all that they might.

He was lucky to be in here, stink or not. He had won the privilege through diligent courtship.

Burris said, “Can you look at me?”

“Easily. You fascinate me, honestly. Did you expect me to be repelled?”

“Most people so far have been.”

“Most people are fools,” said Aoudad.

He did not reveal that he had monitored Burris for many weeks now, long enough to steel himself against the strangenesses of the man. Strange he was, and repellent enough; yet the configurations grew on one. Aoudad was not yet ready to apply for the same sort of beauty treatment, but he was numb to Burris’s deformities.

“Can you help me?” Burris asked.

“I believe I can.”

“Provided I want help.”

“I assume that you do.”

Burris shrugged. “I’m not certain of that. You might say I’m growing accustomed to my present appearance. In another few days I might start going outdoors again.”

It was a lie, Aoudad knew. Which one of them Burris was trying to delude, Aoudad could not positively say. But, however blandly Burris hid his bitterness at the moment, the visitor had ample knowledge that it still festered within him. Burris wanted out of this body.

Aoudad said, “I am in the employ of Duncan Chalk. Do you know the name?”

“No.”

“But—” Aoudad swallowed his surprise. “Of course. You haven’t spent much time on Earth. Chalk brings amusement to the world. Perhaps you’ve visited the Arcade, or maybe you’ve been to Luna Tivoli.”

“I know of them.”

“They are Chalk’s enterprises. Among many others. He keeps billions of people happy in this system. He is even planning to expand to other systems shortly.” That was a bit of imaginative hyperbole on Aoudad’s part, but Burris did not need to know it.

Burris said, “So?”

“Chalk is wealthy, you see. Chalk is humanitarian. The combination is a good one. It holds possibilities that may benefit you.”

“I see them already,” said Burris smoothly, leaning forward and entwining the outer tentacles that squirmed on his hands. “You hire me as an exhibit in Chalk’s circuses. You pay me eight million a year. Every curiosity-seeker in the system comes to have his look. Chalk gets richer, I become a millionaire and die happy, and the petty curiosities of the multitudes are gratified. Yes?”

“No,” Aoudad said, alarmed by the nearness of Burris’s guess. “I’m sure you’re merely joking. You must realize that Mr. Chalk could not conceivably exploit your—ah—misfortune in such a way,”

“Do you think it’s such a misfortune?” asked Burris. “I’m quite efficient this way. Of course, there’s pain, but I can stay underwater for fifteen minutes. Can you do that? Do you feel so sorry for me?”

I must not let him lead me astray, Aoudad resolved. He’s devilish. He’d get along well with Chalk.

Aoudad said, “Certainly I’m happy to know that you find your present situation reasonably satisfactory. Yet—let me be frank—I suspect you’d be glad to return to normal human form.”

“You think so, do you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a remarkably perceptive man, Mr. Aoudad. Have you brought your magic wand?”

“There’s no magic involved. But if you’re willing to supply a quid for our quo, it’s possible that Chalk can arrange to have you transferred to a more conventional body.”

The effect on Burris was immediate and electric.

He dropped the pose of casual indifference. He cast aside the mocking detachment behind which, Aoudad realized, he hid his agony. His body trembled like a glass flower strummed by the breeze. There was momentary loss of muscular control: the mouth convulsively flashed sidewise smiles, a flapping gate, and the shuttered eyes clicked a dozen times.

“How can this be done?” Burris demanded.

“Let Chalk explain it to you.”

Burris’s hand dug into Aoudad’s thigh. Aoudad did not shrink at the metallic touch.

Burris said hoarsely: “Is it possible?”

“It may be. The technique is not perfected yet.”

“Am I to be the guinea pig this time, too?”

“Please. Chalk would not expose you to further distress. There will be additional research before the process can be applied to you. Will you talk to him?”

Hesitation. Once more eyes and mouth acted seemingly without Burris’s volition. Then the starman regained command of himself. He straightened, twining his hands together, crossing his legs. How many knee-joints does he have, Aoudad wondered? Burris was silent. Calculating. Electrons surging down the pathways of that tormented brain.

Burris said, “If Chalk can place me in another body—”

“Yes?”

“What will he gain from it?”

“I told you. Chalk’s a humanitarian. He knows you’re in pain. He wants to do something about it. See him, Burris. Let him help you.”

“Who are you, Aoudad?”

“No one. A limb of Duncan Chalk.”

“Is this a trap?”

“You’re too suspicious,” Aoudad said. “We mean the best for you.”

Silence. Burris rose, pacing the room in a peculiarly liquid gliding step. Aoudad was taut.

“To Chalk,” Burris murmured finally. “Yes. Take me to Chalk!”

In the dark it was easy for Lona to pretend that she was dead. She often mourned at her own grave. She saw herself on a hillside, on a grassy breast of earth with a tiny plaque set in the ground at her feet.

She drew the coverlets up over her thin body. Her eyes, tightly closed, held back the tears. BLESSED REPOSE. HOPE OF REDEMPTION. What did they do with dead bodies nowadays? Pop them in the oven! A bright hot flash. Light, like the sun. And then dust. Dust to dust. A long sleep.

I was nearly dead once, Lona reminded herself. But they stopped me. They brought me back.

Six months ago, in the full blaze of summer. A good season for dying, Lona thought. Her babies had been born. It didn’t take nine months, the way they did it, bringing them along in bottles. More like six months. The experiment had taken place exactly a year back. Six months for the babies to hatch. Then the unbearable publicity—and the brush with deliberate death.