Charles Sheffield - Aftermath

“I’ll give you a thought that should make us all cheer.” Dana ignored Art’s warning and again turned back to face him. “There are two and a half million lawyers in this country. What do you think they’re doing now?”

“Trying to survive, like everyone else.” Art wasn’t sure she wanted an actual answer from him.

“Sure, but doing what? Nobody will be getting divorced, or arguing over a will, or ready to pay a lobbyist. Where my sister lives the economy has gone mostly to barter — food for clothes, fuel for the use of an old car. Lawyers don’t actually do anything, so they have nothing to barter.”

“You don’t like lawyers?”

“I hate the sons of bitches.” Dana sounded remarkably cheerful. “One of them sued on behalf of my sister, and she won. And you know what? His fee took every cent of the whole settlement.”

“You’ve never dated a lawyer, then? I’d think they’d be buzzing around you, like flies round — well, like — bees.”

“That’s not what you were going to say, is it?” The path had widened, and she dropped back to Art’s side. “Just as well you didn’t stay with your first thought, or it’s you who’d be in that water.”

“I spend a lot of my time with men.”

“Oh, yes? What’s that mean? That you think it gives you an excuse for crude, sexist remarks?”

“No.” Art wondered how he had got into this. He said doggedly, “I was just trying to point out that someone as attractive as you must get offers to take you out all the time, and a lot of those men would probably be lawyers. They’re keen on trophy dates and trophy wives, women they can show off in public.”

“I have dated lawyers,” Dana said airily. “Three of them. They’re the ones I hate the most. The bastards.” She eased her way around a tall concrete pillar that narrowed the walkway, ducked to allow for the lower ceiling, and waited until Art had done the same. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about, though.”

“You could have fooled me. You were the one started on lawyers.”

“I know. I was just feeling uppity. Must be the ambience. If I could carry a tune, I’d be singing, too. But I wanted to ask if you signed some sort of release document before you started the telomod treatment.”

“I certainly did. A release from everything, so far as I could tell. I could be killed, ground up, and sold as cat food and the Institute wouldn’t be held responsible.”

“The same as mine. But do you remember any particular side effects of the treatment that they warned about?”

“They had a long list of possibles. Plain and fancy cancers, in addition to the one that brought me to the program. Nausea, bleeding, fits, fainting, headaches, seizures, liver failure, kidney problems.” Art shrugged.

“You name it. The list went on and on. I never had any of them.”

“Do you remember anything—” Dana halted on the walkway, so that Art had to stop, too. “Look, Art, don’t laugh at me, even if this sounds totally crazy. But did anyone or anything ever mention a side effect that could make you feel totally wonderful?”

“I don’t remember one.” Art gestured ahead, to where Seth was walking on steadily, farther and farther in front of them. He took her hand and pulled her forward with him. “We were told that if things went well we might have a normal life expectancy, even one beyond the normal. If we were lucky, we might see some rejuvenation effects, too.”

“That’s my point! I’m not just feeling better, I’m feeling great, the way I haven’t felt for thirty years. I’m like a kid. I wake up, and the whole day spreads out before me. Even in the middle of this disaster, I look forward to things. And you, Art. You look ten years younger than the first time I met you. You’re acting it, too. Don’t you feel younger?”

“I guess I do.” It wasn’t the time to say that he had been feeling horny a lot, particularly around Dana. “I’m in better shape than I thought I’d be, three days ago. When I left Catoctin Mountain I expected that the drive down to the Institute on the tractor would just about kill me, and it didn’t. Yesterday I felt fine. And last night with you was great, the best night I’ve had in years — I mean, the best night’s sleep.”

“I assumed you meant that.” She gave a coarse, low-pitched laugh that echoed off the tunnel roof and walls. “Don’t you think there’s a faint chance I would have noticed, if you’d meant anything else? You don’t have to tell me you slept well. I would have liked to talk last night, but you told me we ought to go to sleep. Then you went out like a light.”

“You’re worried about feeling well, are you? You shouldn’t be.” Art finally released Dana’s hand and waved to an invisible Seth. The walkway was straight and they had allowed themselves to fall far behind.

Now from in front of them a flashlight had turned in their direction. “I can’t think of any bad side effect that makes a person feel good. I don’t think there’s any such thing.”

“I hope you’re right. But what do we know?” Dana walked faster. “We have to find Oliver Guest and learn exactly what’s going on with us. I hope he can tell us more than the doctors at the Institute. I could never get much out of them.”

“Medical caution.” Art increased his pace to match hers. “Unless you want to call it medical cowardice. Suppose they predicted our condition, and things turned out some other way? Then they couldn’t act like gods anymore.”

“Sounds like you feel for doctors the way I feel about lawyers.”

“Could be. One of them damn near killed me. That toe-tapping double-talking buckle-shoed charlatan.” Art walked faster yet. One nice thing about feeling fitter, you had the energy for righteous indignation. “He was an arrogant little shit. If I hadn’t ignored him and gone for a second opinion right away while he was still blathering on about allergies, I wouldn’t be talking with you today.”

“I sympathize with that feeling. But what can you do? The faith healers and karmic gurus are even worse.”

They were almost up to Seth, who turned off his flashlight. Art could see him outlined against a lighter patch of wall. The tunnel made a right angle turn, and a brighter light came from there. He reached in his pocket for his compass. The water flow was southwest.

“Been enjoying yourselves, you two?” Seth sounded cynically amused. “Me, too. So are we ready for stage two? This might be a bit tricky.”

The black water flowed on through a dark opening, but the walkway terminated at a wider platform. On the right, away from the water, a rusty iron ladder stood bolted to the wall. It led up to a square vertical metal grating through which weak daylight filtered. A thin layer of snow had found its way through to the platform beneath.

Seth went to the foot of the ladder and stared up. “If that sucker has a lock on the outside, we’re in trouble.”

“It shouldn’t have. Service staff need to be able to get in and out of any access point.” Art moved past Seth and climbed three rungs of the ladder. He held on with his left hand and reached up to the grating with his right. “The real question is, has it been used recently? There’s a layer of snow behind the cover. That won’t help.”

He gripped the grating and pushed one-handed, as hard as he could.

“Is it moving?” Seth asked from below.

“Not an inch. I think it’s frozen. It’s hinged on the upper side. Dana, lend me your wrench, would you?”

He took the long tool and thrust it as hard as he could. The result was a loud clang and a shower of snow in his eyes. Art tried again. Snow again fell, more than the first time.