Hal Clement - Through the Eye of a Needle

Everyone wants to make an impression on history, but most of us would prefer it to be a good impression. Some twenty-eight years ago, I wrote a story called NEEDLE, many of whose characters reappear in this book. In that story, I frequently referred to one or the other of the partners in the biological relation called symbiosis as a symbiote. It will be obvious to many that I was never exposed to a course in the classic tongues of Italy or Greece. A biology-teaching colleague pointed out to me, gently and courteously but much too late that the proper word is symbiont.

Unfortunately, my erroneous contribution to the language has appeared quite frequently in other stories and even in their titles. I regret this, but don't know what I can do about it except what I am doing now. I formally withdraw the word, symbiote, and in this book replace it with the proper one.

Those who still have hopes of formulating a science which will describe social phenomena will, I trust, have fun observing the results of this action.

If any.

Hal Clement

Of the three people in the cockpit of the Catalina, one was slightly bored, one was extremely uncomfortable but too embarrassed to admit it, and the third was wondering whether he had done the right thing.

The pilot had made the trip from Tahiti to Ell often enough and had enough thousands of hours in the amphibian that little of his conscious attention was needed for either operation or navigation. The weather was bumpy but called for no special concern and the aircraft itself was reliable enough to demand only the routine worries of the man's profession.

Robert Kinnaird did not regard the weather with the same indifference. He knew as well as the man in the other seat that there was no danger, but the knowledge didn't seem to help his nervous system at the reflex level. His eyes and his semicircular canals were feeding conflicting data to his brain. The Pacific was garnished with convection cells that afternoon; some of them were visible by virtue of the cumulus puffs which topped them, but others could only make themselves felt. The young man had several times been on the verge of suggesting that they climb above the cumulus tops, but he knew what the answer would be. Dulac, the pilot, had very professional ideas about fuel conservation, even on a short trip such as this. His combat flying over the same ocean during the early forties had given him a clear idea of the magnitude of the water-to-land ratio even in areas where islands were frequent. Kinnaird himself had insisted on making the flight that afternoon, rather than early the following morning. Dulac had warned him that it would be a bumpy ride. All that Bob could do was feel irritated at the third member of the group, and he knew that any such annoyance was both unjustified and futile. He had known for years that the Hunter would do nothing about such a trivial phenomenon as motion sickness.

The Hunter himself was not quite sure whether he should take steps or not. The flight was, of course, Bob's own fault; there was no practical reason why they couldn't have waited until the next day. The human youth knew, from both precept and experience that his alien companion would do everything in his power to preserve him from real injury or illness, but that he did not want to encourage Bob to lean at all heavily on the being's invisible presence. The four pounds of jelly distributed throughout the man's body cavities knew that total dependence on another being could lead to even more trouble than seven years of partial dependence already had. The Hunter, these days, tended to lean over backward to avoid doing anything more than basic scratch-plugging. He knew that he was overreacting, and that a little nerve pressure to ease his host's nausea would probably do no real harm; but, with Bob's health at its present level, he could not bring himself to take a chance. After all, the trip couldn't take much longer.

In an attempt to be consoling, he pointed this out to Bob. The pilot could not hear him, since the sound of the Hunter's voice originated in his host's middle-ear bones, vibrated by threads of unhuman tissues but the response was less well concealed.

"Don't tell me it wont be long!" snapped Kinnaird. "It's been three and a half eternities already, and the island isn't in sight yet. Why didn't you talk me out of it?" His voice was not quite audible, though he did speak-the Hunter was not a mind-reader, though he could interpret the emotion behind most of Bob's involuntary muscular and glandular responses. The pilot might possibly have heard the mutter if the engines had not been running.

"What was I supposed to say?" retorted the Hunter. "I did point out that Dulac was right about the roughness of the flight. Since you have final say about any of our activities-unless I want to exercise veto by knocking you out-there was nothing much more I could do. You chose to face it-now face it. After all, there's nothing in your stomach to lose even if your control does go."

"I wish you'd exercise that veto right now. At least I'd be comfortable until we get down. I mean it, Hunter. I've never felt worse in my life. Maybe the other trouble is contributing, but I really don't think I can put up with it any longer."

The Hunter was tempted for a moment, but decided against taking the chance.

"This isn't that sort emergency, and you know it," the alien said. "I'm sorry you're so uncomfortable, but no one ever dies of motion sickness; as your own people say. They-"

"If you say what I think you're about to, I'll get drunk the minute we get home!" Bob interrupted, almost loudly enough to attract Dulac's attention. The Hunter, whose main aim was to keep his host's attention from his own stomach, refrained from repeating the cliché, and simply changed the subject. The remark about alcohol he assumed-and hoped-was not meant seriously; Bob definitely knew better than to take chances with his symbiont's personal coordination.

"Do you really think we can get anywhere without letting more human beings know about me?" the alien asked. "We're going to need a lot of help."

"I'm hoping for most from Doc Seever," Bob replied. "His hours are kind of irregular, of course, since there's no way to predict sickness or injury there on the island, but he certainly knows more of what has to be known than anyone else there. Dad'll be too busy to help, most of the time. We really should have some people who are either a lot lower in the PFI chain of command and don't have much but eight-to-five responsibilities, or people who don't work for the outfit at all. The latter will be hard to find on Ell."

"Your mother is a competent person."

"She'll have to spend too much time looking after Silly."

"Your sister is six years old, now. She shouldn't need very much of your mother's time-won't she be in school by now?"

"Maybe. I've almost forgotten when school keeps down here."

The discussion was interrupted by a tap on Bob's shoulder, felt by both speakers. Both looked ahead, the Hunter having no choice in the matter. The island which Bob regarded as home, though he had been away from it well over half the time for the last ten years, was clearly visible ahead, the low sun accenting the ridges which formed the two arms of the L-shape, and gleaming from the square outlines of the culture tanks which studded the lagoon. Dulac banked a trifle to the right, and eased back on the throttles.

"Well be down in fifteen minutes," he assured his passenger.

"Good." Bob's approval was very sincere, "I'm sorry I talked you into a. ride this bumpy, but at least we'll be home that much sooner."

"You mean you will. It doesn't matter that much to me where I sleep. What you've talked me into is having tomorrow off, thanks. I was supposed to get this bucket to Ell by tomorrow night for work the next day. As far as the ride was concerned, you did all the suffering, so don't apologize to me."