Damon Knight - Orbit 17

Heller growled.

“Well, so I’m better out of it. Not that we won’t be ready for them when they come. I’ve already put all my data in a time vault. They won’t be able to prove anything. So there remains just this one thing to be done, and that thing depends on acquisition of precisely the right donor. We must have patience and pray for a miracle.”

Heller snarled.

“Miracles do happen, you know. Why, the human brain itself is a miracle. A highly improbable organ. Did you know it controls the functions of literally trillions of cells, is linked to the rest of the body by a webbing of eighty-six major neural channels all especially designed for the constant transmission of infinite numbers of messages? Which doesn’t begin to explain the phenomenon of creative thought; that defies explanation altogether. Ah, Heller, it’s in the brain that the soul resides, after all. Who needs anything else for perfect communion between two people? (But of course if I really believed that, I wouldn’t be going to all this trouble and risk, would I?)”

It wasn’t exactly a miracle that happened. Unless a miracle can be defined as the point of intersection of the trajectories of two totally unrelated events which manage to coincide profitably. As when the computer in the payroll office of Windy Hill Poly came unglued, so to speak, holding up all checks for five days, this occurring that same week when Dr. Swoos was firming up her final plan for Heller, and realizing that there was probably very little time left for her to act.

Spike Wissowiscz, a freshman business administration major especially imported to Windy Hill for his football potential, was one of those left checkless, since he drew his scholarship money direct from the institution. And because of his powerful frame and a habit of taking five or six enormous meals a day, he required a lot of money to keep going. When he had complained a number of times at the administration building about his missing check, saying that he was almost dead broke, someone there suggested he apply at the Fun Palace for some small job to tide himself over, since they always paid in cash at the labs.

So Spike did. And sure enough, he fell into the hands of Dr. Swoos, who seemed inordinately pleased to see him. She made him feel so welcome, in fact, that he didn’t hesitate for a moment when she slapped down before him a paper with a tangle of small print and asked him if he would sign.

“Jesus, lady,” he said, “I’ll sign anything. I ain’t eaten for four hours.”

Very soon after this Heller Olay walked into the Fun Palace a handsome gray timber wolf; some time later he was wheeled out of one of its operating rooms a hard-muscled, clean-living jock in top physical shape with a considerable life expectancy.

Even Meeford got his big chance at last. Returning to the scene of action after Swoos had gone off in triumph and hope with her subject, Meeford poked about disconsolately. There was nothing among the skills Dr. Swoos had just displayed that he hadn’t mastered, no technique he hadn’t learned as her assistant. Yet she got all the glory; he got only the cleanup jobs. He looked for a long time at some leftover gray-white, wrinkled, convoluted tissue visible behind glass as it steeped in a temperature-controlled broth, an assortment of plastic tubes linking it to some inscrutable machinery. Then he wandered on, coming at last into the deserted main lab assigned to the Swoos project. It was just dusk and the place seemed more than ordinarily gloomy.

Meeford flipped on all the lights to cheer himself up, and his eye fell upon Smith, who with one hand was idly scratching a flea on his massive chest, while with the other he masturbated in a kind of absent-minded way.

Morgane Swoos and Heller Olay, each of them independently wealthy, both of them brimming with health and good spirits (mens sana in corpore sano), and together thought by many to be the most spectacularly handsome couple since Mansfield and Hargitay, went to live in Dominica. Of course they had to change their names, and practice other similar discretions, because of all the things Dr. Swoos might otherwise have been called to account for in her past distinguished but unorthodox career.

And that’s not quite all. There is a secondary story about how Windy Hill Poly, a third-rate university, the following autumn managed to field a football team that very soon established a first-rate intercollegiate record for no lost games and unheard-of scores. It seems the Hill’s secret weapon was a newcomer, a running back named Spike Wissowiscz. This instant hero played a fast-moving, hard-driving game, halting just short of what was forbidden by NCAA codes. There was no stopping him. He was known affectionately to his teammates as “the big ape,” and sportswriters and telecasters occasionally described him as “a real gorilla.”

What are children for, anyway? (And if the answer is so obvious, why can’t you think of it right now?)

On Friday my father beats me.

On weekends I play granddaughter to a jet-setting dowager, covering my quick-healing bruises with elegant frocks bought specially for the purpose. I spend Monday afternoons in church, giving comfort to men of the cloth who need assurance that all is well with youth. On Tuesdays I lend my services to a licensed child molester, and Wednesdays to a lower-class dyad, who treat me with all the respect befitting the size of their investment.

Thursdays are open.

Anything can happen today.

I wake early to the cold hostel, switch off the sleeper’s programmed tapes and hurry shivering into the lightbath adjacent to my cubicle. I close my eyes tightly and activate the unit, feeling the sudden blast of ultraviolet light, the ticklish flurry of dead skin. My body glows pinkly as I brush away the monomolecular flakes that remain. Like a chrysalis, or a snake shedding its skin. I recite an invocation silently and begin to dress, picking a workskirt from the closet. A flowing garment of many possibilities, ideally suited to our needs. Psychodrama. Mime. Improvisation. Anything can happen, as long as one remains flexible.

Morning sounds within the hostel: a sleeper unit groaning, the rush of a distant lightbath. I go to the dining area early for my allotted fare. The proctors are already eating. I sit near them, shamelessly hoping they may notice me. Soon, perhaps, I will be a proctor myself. In the meantime I must make a good impression. I take my food and again recite an invocation—this time to the hormone regulators that protect us.

Breakfast finished, I hurry across the garden to the amphitheater. Already hungry faces have assembled at the observation areas. For the moment I ignore them and join the other chiggies. The domed theater rapidly fills; the class murmurs eagerly as we await the appearance of our protector, God. A buzzer signals his arrival. All chiggies hush and stand at attention. The proctors survey us sternly.

A door opens to reveal an elegant woman of late middle age. She has Teutonic features and a mane of silver hair. A black evening dress and matching pumps complete the picture. There is a momentary silence—surely this cannot be our God! But then the woman smiles warmly, motioning us to be seated with a familiar gesture. There are gasps of approval and recognition. Another triumph of disguisel God is a model for us all. His disguises are as unpredictable as life itself—he has appeared to us variously as man and woman, youth and sage. Once he even appeared as a dwarf. It is not known how he effects these illusions; this is a matter of faith. We are only expected to follow his protean example as best we can. Life is change, and change requires adaptation—even at the expense of recognizable personality.