Robert Charles Wilson - SPIN

"Both ways. You're talking about E.D.'s insinuations about my health."

Lomax sighed. "Frankly, your father's opinion on the practicality of the replicator project doesn't carry much weight. It's a minority point of view and likely to remain that way. But yes, I have to admit, the charges he made today are a little troubling." He turned to face me. "That's why you're here, Dr. Dupree."

Now Jason aimed his attention at me, and his voice was cautious, carefully neutral. "It seems E.D.'s been making some fairly wild claims. He says I'm suffering from, what was it, an aggressive brain disease—?"

"An unbeatable neurological deterioration," Lomax said, "which is interfering with Jason's ability to oversee operations here at Perihelion. What do you say to that, Dr. Dupree?"

"I guess I would say Jason can speak for himself."

"I already have," Jase said. "I told Vice President Lomax all about my MS."

From which he did not actually suffer. It was a cue. I cleared my throat. "Multiple sclerosis isn't entirely curable, but it's more than just controllable. An MS patient today can expect a life span as long and productive as anyone else's. Maybe Jase has been reluctant to talk about it, and that's his privilege, but MS is nothing to be embarrassed about."

Jase gave me a hard look I couldn't interpret.

Lomax said, "Thank you," a little dryly. "I appreciate the information. By the way, do you happen to know a Dr. Malmstein? David Malmstein?" Followed by a silence that gaped like the jaws of a steel trap.

"Yes," I said, maybe a tick too late.

"This Dr. Malmstein is a neurologist, is he not?"

"Yes, he is."

"Have you consulted him in the past?"

"I consult with lots of specialists. It's part of what I do as a physician."

"Because, according to E.D., you called in this Malmstein regarding Jason's, uh, grave neurological disorder."

Which explained the frigid look Jase was shooting me. Someone had talked to E.D. about this. Someone close. But it hadn't been me.

I tried not to think about who it might have been. "I'd do the same for any patient with a possible MS diagnosis. I run a good clinic here at Perihelion, but we don't have the kind of diagnostic equipment Malmstein can access at a working hospital."

Lomax, I think, recognized this as a nonanswer, but he tossed the ball back to Jase: "Is Dr. Dupree telling the truth?"

"Of course he is."

"You trust him?"

"He's my personal physician. Of course I trust him."

"Because, no offense, I wish you well but I don't really give a shit about your medical problems. What concerns me is whether you can give us the support we need and see this project through to the end. Can you do that?"

"As long as we're funded, yes sir, I'll be here."

"And how about you, Ambassador Wen? Does this raise any alarms with you? Any concerns or questions about the future of Perihelion?"

Wun pursed his lips, three quarters of a Martian smile. "No concerns whatsoever. I trust Jason Lawton implicitly. I also trust Dr. Dupree. He's my personal physician as well."

Which caused both Jason and me to stifle our astonishment, but it closed the deal with Lomax. He shrugged. "All right. I apologize for bringing it up. Jason, I hope your health remains good and I hope you weren't offended by the tone of the questions, but given E.D.'s status I felt I had to ask."

"I understand," Jase said. "As for E.D.—"

"Don't worry about your father."

"I'd hate to see him humiliated."

"He'll be quietly sidelined. I think that's a given. If he insists on going public—" Lomax shrugged. "In that case I'm afraid it's his own mental capacity people will challenge."

"Of course," Jason said, "we all hope that's not necessary."

* * * * *

I spent the next hour in the clinic. Molly hadn't shown up this morning and Lucinda had been doing all the bookings. I thanked her and told her to take the rest of the day off I thought about making a couple of phone calls, but I didn't want them routed through the Perihelion system.

I waited until I had seen Lomax's helicopter lift off and his imperial cavalcade depart by the front gates; then I cleared my desk and tried to think about what I wanted to do. I found my hands were a little shaky. Not MS. Anger, maybe. Outrage. Pain. I wanted to diagnose it, not experience it. I wanted to banish it to the index pages of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual.

I was on my way past reception when Jason came through the door.

He said, "I want to thank you for backing me up. I assume that means you aren't the one who told E.D. about Malmstein."

"I wouldn't do that, Jase."

"I accept that. But someone did. And that presents a problem. Because how many people are aware I've been seeing a neurologist?"

"You, me, Malmstein, whoever works in Malmstein's office—"

"Malmstein didn't know E.D. was looking for dirt and neither did his staff. E.D. must have found out about Malmstein from a closer source. If not you or me—"

Molly. He didn't have to say it.

"We can't blame her without any kind of evidence."

"Speak for yourself. You're the one who's sleeping with her. Did you keep records on my meetings with Malmstein?"

"Not here in the office."

"At home?"

"Yes."

"You showed these to her?"

"Of course not."

"But she might have gained access to them when you weren't aware of it."

"I suppose so." Yes.

"And she's not here to answer questions. Did she call in sick?"

I shrugged. "She didn't call in at all. Lucinda tried to get hold of her, but her phone isn't answering."

He sighed. "I don't exactly blame you for this. But you have to admit, Tyler, you've made a lot of questionable choices here."

"I'll deal with it," I said.

"I know you're angry. Hurt and angry. I don't want you to walk out of here and do something that will make things worse. But I do want you to consider where you stand on this project. Where your loyalties lie."

"I know where they lie," I said.

* * * * *

I tried to reach Molly from my car but she still wasn't answering. I drove to her apartment. It was a warm day. The low-rise stucco complex where she lived was enshrouded in lawn-sprinkler haze. The fungal smell of wet garden soil infiltrated the car.

I was circling toward visitor parking when I caught sight of Moll stacking boxes in the back of a battered white U-Haul trailer hitched to the rear bumper of her three-year-old Ford. I pulled over in front of her. She spotted me and said something I couldn't hear but which looked a lot like "Oh, shit!" But she stood her ground when I got out of my car.

"You can't park there," she said. "You're blocking the exit."

"Are you going somewhere?"

Molly placed a cardboard box labeled dishes on the corrugated floor of the U-Haul. "What does it look like?"

She was wearing tan slacks, a denim shirt, and a handkerchief tied over her hair. I came closer and she took an equivalent three steps back, clearly frightened.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I said.

"So what do you want?"

"I want to know who hired you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Did you deal with E.D. himself or did he use an intermediary?"

"Shit," she said, gauging the distance between herself and the car door. "Just let me go, Tyler. What do you want from me? What's the point of this?"

"Did you go to him and make an offer or did he call you first? And when did all this start, Moll? Did you fuck me for information or did you sell me out at some point after the first date?"

"Go to hell."

"How much were you paid? I'd like to know how much I'm worth."

"Go to hell. What does it matter, anyway? It's not—"

"Don't tell me it's not about money. I mean, is some principle involved here?"