Frederik Pohl - Man Plus

“Not a thing,” Roger said honestly. “Thanks anyway. How come you picked coming here?”

She looked at him thoughtfully, the corners of her lips curving very faintly. “Well,” she said, “I knew something about the program here; I’ve been in aerospace medicine for ten years in California. And I knew who you were, Colonel Torraway. Knew! I used to have your picture on my wall when you were rescuing those Russians. You wouldn’t believe the active role you played in some of my fantasies, Colonel Torraway, sir.”

She grinned and turned away, stopping at the door. “Do me a favor, will you?”

Roger was surprised. “Sure. What?”

“Well, I’d like a more recent picture. You know what security is like here. If I sneak in a camera, can I take a quick snapshot of you now? Just so I can have something to show my grandchildren, if I ever have any.”

Roger protested, “They’ll kill you if they catch you, Sulie.”

She winked. “I’ll take my chances; it’s worth it. Thanks.”

After she had gone Roger made an effort to go back to thinking about his castration and his cuckolding, but for some reason they seemed less overwhelming. Nor did he have a great deal of time. Sulie came in with a low-residue lunch, a smile and a promise to be back the following morning. Clara Bly gave him an enema, and then he lay wondering while three identical fair-mustached men came in and went over every inch of floor, wall and furniture with metal detectors and electronic mops. They were total strangers, and they stayed in the room, on new-brought chairs, silent and watching, while Brad came in.

Brad was looking not merely ill but seriously worried. “Hi, Roger,” he said. “Jesus, you scared us. It’s my fault; I should have been on tap, but this damn flu bug—”

“I survived,” Roger said, studying Brad’s rather ordinary face and wondering just why he wasn’t feeling outrage and resentment.

“We’re going to have to keep you pretty busy now,” Brad began, dragging up a chair. “We’ve phased out some of your mediation circuits for the moment. When they’re full in again we’re going to have to limit your sensory inputs — let you work up to handling a total environment a little at a time. And Kathleen’s jumping to get you started on retraining — you know, learning how to use your muscles and all that.” He glanced over at the three silent watchers. His expression, Roger thought, was suddenly full of fear.

“I guess I’m ready,” Roger said.

“Oh, sure. I know you are,” said Brad, surprised. “Haven’t they been giving you updates on your readouts? You’re functioning like a seventeen-jewel watch, Roger. All the surgery is over now. You’ve got everything you need.” He sat back, studying Roger. “If I do say so” — he grinned — “you’re a work of art, Roger, and I’m the artist. I just wish I could see you on Mars. That’s where you belong, boy.”

One of the watchers cleared his throat. “It’s getting toward that time, Dr. Bradley,” he said.

The worried look returned to Brad’s face. “Coming right away. Take care, Rog. I’ll be back to see you later.”

He left, and the three government agents followed him, as Clara Bly came in and fussed around the room.

A mystery was suddenly clear. “Dash is coming to see me,” Roger guessed.

“Smart!” sniffed Clara. “Well, I guess it’s all right for you to know. It wasn’t all right for me to know. They think it’s a secret. But what kind of secret is it when they turn the whole hospital upside down? They’ve had those guys all over the place since before I came on duty.”

“When will he get here?” Roger asked.

“That’s the part that is a secret. From me, anyway.”

But it did not stay a secret very long; within the hour, to an unheard but strongly felt “Hail to the Chief,” the President of the United States came into the room. With him was the same valet he had had on the presidential jet, but this time he was obviously not a valet, only a bodyguard.

“Marvelous to see you again,” said the President, holding out his hand. He had never seen the revised and edited version of the astronaut before, and certainly the dully gleaming flesh, the great faceted eyes, the hovering wings must have looked strange, but what showed in the President’s well-disciplined face was only friendship and pleasure. “I stopped off a little while ago to say hello to your good wife, Dorrie. I hope she’s forgiven me for messing up her fingernail polish last month; I forgot to ask. But how are you feeling?”

How Roger was feeling was once again amazed at the thoroughness of the President’s briefing, but what he said was, “Fine, Mr. President.”

The President inclined his head toward the bodyguard without looking at him. “John, have you got that little package for Colonel Torraway? It’s something Dorrie asked me to bring over to you; you can open it when we’ve gone.” The bodyguard placed a white-paper package on Roger’s bedside table and slid a chair over for the President in almost the same motion, just as the President was preparing to sit down. “Roger,” said the President, sharpening the creases in his Bermudas, “I know I can be honest with you. You’re all we’ve got now, and we need you. The indices are looking worse every day. The Asians are spoiling for trouble, and I don’t know how long I can keep from giving it to them. We have to get you to Mars, and you have to function when you get there. I can’t overestimate the importance of it.”

Roger said, “I think I understand that, sir.”

“Well, in a way, I guess you do. But do you understand it in your gut? Do you really feel, deep down, that you’re that one man, maybe two, in a generation who somehow or other gets himself in a position that’s so important to the whole human race that even inside his own mind what happens to him doesn’t measure up in importance? That’s where you are, Roger. I know,” the President went on sorrowfully, “that they’ve taken some mighty sacrificial liberties with your person. Didn’t give you a chance to say yes, no or maybe. Didn’t even tell you. It’s a piss-poor way to treat any human being, let alone somebody who means as much as you do — and somebody who deserves as well as you do, too. I’ve kicked a bunch of asses around here about that. I’ll be glad to kick a lot more. If you want it done, tell me. Any time. It’s better if I do it than you — with those steel muscles they’ve given you, you might damage a few of those pretty behinds on the nurses past the point of repair. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“What? Oh, hell, no, Mr. President.”

“Thanks.” The valet had an open cigarette case in one hand and a glowing lighter in the other as soon as the President stretched out his hand. He took a deep draw and leaned back. “Roger,” he said, “let me tell you my fantasy about what I think is in your mind. You’re thinking, ‘Here’s old Dash, politician to the end, full of bulishit and promises, trying to trick me into pulling his chestnuts out of the fire. He’d say anything, he’d promise anything. All he wants is what he can get out of me.’ Anywhere near right, so far?”

“Why — no, Mr. President! Well… a little bit.”

The President nodded. “You’d be crazy if you didn’t think a little bit of that,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s all true, you know. Up to a point. It’s true I’d promise you anything, tell you any lies I could think of to get you to Mars. But the other thing that’s true is that you have us all by the genial organs, Roger. We need you. There’s a war coming if we don’t do something to stop it, and it’s crazy but the trend projections say the only thing that can stop it is putting you on Mars. Don’t ask me why. I just go by what the technical people tell me, and they claim that’s what the computers print out.”