Дэймон Найт: Orbit 12

“ — come down to the point of whether or not I’ll stop you from doing this.” Wind off the headland deadened his words.

“Can you stop me?” Valerie’s voice was flat, without challenge.

He didn’t answer.

“Would you?” Valerie kissed him gently on the side of the throat. “Here’s a Hindu proverb for you. ‘The woman you love, you must not possess.’“

He said in a whisper, without looking at her, “I love you.”

“If you’re not going to kill me,” Folger said, “I’ve got work to do.”

“Folger, what is your fondest wish?”

He stared at her with enigmatic eyes. “You can’t give it to me.”

“Wealth?” said Per. “Recognition? You had a considerable reputation before the war.”

“When we leave,” said Inga, “we want you to return with us.”

Folger looked slowly from one to the other. “Leave the island?”

“A center for deep Pacific studies is opening on Guam,” Inga said. “The directorship is yours.”

“I don t believe any of this,” said Folger. “I’m in my fifties and even considering the postwar chaos, I’m a decade behind my field.”

“Some refresher study at the University of San Juan,” said Per.

Inga said, “Reconstruction is not all that complete. Genius is uncommon. You are needed, Folger.”

“Death or a directorship,” said Folger.

Folger spoke to the project manager in a sterile cubicle off the operating theater. “What are her chances?”

“For survival? Excellent.”

“I mean afterwards.”

The project manager drew deeply on his extinguished pipe. “Can’t say. Test data’s been spotty.”

“Christ, Danny!” Folger swung around. “Don’t doubletalk me. What’s that mean?”

The project manager evaded Folger’s eyes . “A high proportion of the test subjects haven’t returned from field trials. The bio boys think it may have something to do with somatic memory, cellular retention of the old, nonhuman personality”

“And you didn’t tell us anything about this?”

“Security, Marc.“ The project manager looked uncomfortable. “I never know from day to day what’s under wraps. You know, we haven’t had radio reception for twelve days now. Nobody knows—”

“I swear, Danny, if anything happens to her—” The pipe dropped from the project manager’s open mouth. “But she’s a volunteer—”

It was the first time Folger had ever struck another human being.

“Elections are approaching on the continent,” said Inga.

“Free?”

“Of course,” said Per.

“Reasonably,” said Inga. “Within the needs of reconstruction.”

A crowd of children scampered past. Farther down the beach, the fishermen began to unload the day’s catch.

“Do you remember a man named Diaz-Gomide?” said Per.

“No.”

“He is a Brazilian journalist.”

“Yes,” said Folger. “About two years ago, right?”

Per nodded. “He is not only a journalist, but also a higher-up in the opposition party. He is their shadow minister of information.”

“Senhor Diaz-Gomide has proved a great embarrassment to the present administration,” said Inga.

“The same regime that’s been in power for a quarter century,” said Folger.

Inga made a noncommittal gesture. “Someone had to keep order through the war and after.”

“The point is,” said Per, “that this Diaz-Gomide has been disseminating historical lies on behalf of his party.”

“Let me guess,” said Folger. He walked slowly toward the end of the pier and the Lindfors followed. “He had disclosed terrible things about the government in connection with the Marine Institute on East Falkland.”

“Among other fabrications,” said Per.

Folger stopped with his toes overhanging the water. “He alleged that inhuman experiments were carried on, that the brains of unwilling or unknowing subjects were transplanted into the bodies of sea creatures.”

“Something like that, except he couched it in less clinical language.”

“Down the rabbit hole.” Folger shook his head slowly. “What do you want from me—a disclaimer?”

Inga said, “We suspect Diaz-Gomide grossly distorted your statements in the interview. It would be well if you set the record straight.”

“The Marine Forces experiments have been greatly exaggerated,” said Per.

“Probably not,” said Folger.

They stared at each other.

Folger floated in the center of the holding tank. The whisper of the regulator sounded extraordinarily loud in his ears. He turned to follow the great white shark as it slowly circled, its eye continually focused on Folger. The shark—he found difficulty ascribing it her name—moved fluidly, weaving, head traveling from side to side slowly with the rhythm of its motion through the water.

She—he made the attempt—she was beautiful; implacably, savagely so. He had seldom been this close to a shark. He watched silently her body crease with a thousand furrows, every move-merit emphasizing musculature. He had never seen beauty so deadly.

After a time, he tried the sonex. “Valerie—inquiry—what is it like.”

The coded reply came back and unscrambled. “Marc—never know—mass&bulk&security—better.”

He sent: “Inquiry—happy.“

“Yes.”

They exchanged messages for a few minutes more. He asked, “Inquiry—what will they do with you.”

“Assigned soldier—picket duty—Mariana Trench.”

“Inquiry—when.”

“Never—never soldier—run away first.”

“So,” said Folger. “Recant or die?”

“We would like to see you take the directorship of the research center on Guam,” said Inga.

Folger found the paper among other poems scattered like dry leaves in Valerie’s room:

He went outside to the catch pens. From the catwalk he looked into the tank. The shark circled ceaselessly. She swung around to his side and Folger watched the dark back, the mottled gray-and-white belly slide by. He watched until darkness fell.

“Do I get time to consider the offer?” Folger asked

The Lindfors looked at each other, considering.

“I was never good at snap decisions.”

“We would like to tidy up this affair—” said Per.

“I know,” Folger said. “Skiing the Sierras.”

“Would twelve hours be sufficient?”

“Time enough to consult my Book of Changes.”

“Do you really?” Inga’s eyes widened fractionally.

“Treason,” Per said.

“No. No more. My mystical phase played through.”

“Then we can expect your decision in the morning?”

“Right”

“And now it is time for supper,” said Inga. “Shall we go to the boat? I remember, Folger. Very rare.”

“No business during dinner?”

“No,” Inga promised.

“Your goddamn girl,” said the project manager. Soaked through with sea water and reeking of contraband liquor, he sloshed into Folgers quarters. “She got away.”

Folger switched on the lamp by the bunk and looked up sleepily. “Danny? What? Who got away?”

“Goddamn girl.”

“Valerie?” Folger swung his legs off the bed and sat up.

“Smashed the seagate . Let loose half the tanks. We tried to head her off in the channel.”

“Is she all right?”