"He did. Is that important?"
"I think it is. He expected a favorable reply and wanted to look his
best. As nearly normal as possible."
"Trouble?"
"I don't see how," said the medicouncilor uncertainly. "In any event,
not immediately. It will take them some time to get over the shock of
refusal. They can't do anything, really. Individually they're
helpless. Collectively--there aren't parts for a dozen sound bodies on
the asteroid."
"I've looked over the records," said Dr. Cameron. "Not one accidental
has ever _liked_ being on Handicap Haven, and that covers quite a few
years. But there has never been so much open discontent as there is
now."
"Someone is organizing them. Find out who and keep a close watch."
"I know who. Docchi, Nona, Anti, and Jordan. But it doesn't do any
good merely to watch them. I want your permission to break up that
combination. Humanely, of course."
"How do you propose to do it?"
"Docchi, for instance. With prosthetic arms he appears physically
normal, except for that uncanny luminescence. That is repulsive to the
average person. Medically there's nothing we can do about it, but
psychologically we might be able to make it into an asset. You're
aware that Gland Opera is the most popular program in the Solar
System. Telepaths, teleports, pyrotics and so forth are the heroes.
All fake, of course: makeup and trick camera shots. But Docchi can be
made into a real live star. The death-ray man, say. When his face
shines, men fall dead or paralyzed. He'd have a chance to return to
normal society under conditions that would be mentally acceptable to
him."
"Acceptable to him, perhaps, but not to society," reflected the
medicouncilor. "An ingenious idea, one which does credit to your
humanitarian outlook. Only it won't work. You have Docchi's medical
record, but you probably don't know his complete history. He was an
electrochemical engineer, specializing in cold lighting. He seemed on
his way to a brilliant career when a particularly messy accident
occurred. The details aren't important. He was badly mangled and
tossed into a tank of cold lighting fluid by automatic machinery. It
was some time before he was discovered.
"There was a spark of life left and we managed to save him. We had to
amputate his arms and ribs practically to his spinal column. The
problem of regeneration wasn't as easy as it usually is. We were able
to build up a new rib case; that's as much as we could do. Under such
conditions, prosthetic arms are merely ornaments. They can be fastened
to him and they look all right, but he can't use them. He has no back
or shoulder muscles to anchor them to.
"And add to that the adaptation his body made while he was in the
tank. The basic cold lighting fluid, as you know, is semi-organic. It
permeated every tissue in his body. By the time we got him, it was
actually a necessary part of his metabolism. A corollary, I suppose,
of the fundamental biocompensation theory."
The medicouncilor paused and shook his head. "I'm afraid your idea is
out, Dr. Cameron. I don't doubt that he would be successful on the
program you mention. But there is more to life on the outside than
success. Can you picture the dead silence when he walks into a room of
normal people?"
"I see," said Cameron, though he didn't, at least not eye to eye. The
medicouncilor was convinced and there was nothing Cameron could do to
alter that conviction. "The other one I had in mind was Nona," he
added.
"I thought so." Thorton glanced at the solar chronometer. "I haven't
much time, but I'd better explain. You're new to the post and I don't
think you've learned yet to evaluate the patients and their problems
properly. In a sense, Nona is more impossible than Docchi. He was once
a normal person. She never was. Her appearance is satisfactory;
perhaps she's quite pretty, though you must remember that you're
seeing her under circumstances that may make her seem more attractive
than she really is.
"She can't talk or hear. She never will. She doesn't have a larynx,
and it wouldn't help if we gave her one. She simply doesn't have the
nervous system necessary for speech or hearing. Her brain is
definitely not structurally normal. As far as we're concerned, that
abnormality is not in the nature of a mutation. It's more like an
anomaly. Once cleft palates were frequent--prenatal nutritional
deficiencies or traumas. Occasionally we still run into cases like
that, but our surgical techniques are always adequate. Not with Nona,
however.
"She can't be taught to read or write; we've tried it. We dug out the
old Helen Keller techniques and brought them up to date with no
results. Apparently her mind doesn't work in a human fashion. We
question whether very much of it works at all."
"That might be a starting point," said Cameron. "If her brain--"
"Gland Opera stuff," interrupted Thorton. "Or Rhine Opera, if you'll
permit me to coin a term. We've thought of it, but it isn't true.
We've tested her for every telepathic quality that the Rhine people
list. Again no results. She has no special mental capacities. Just to
make sure of that, we've given her periodic checkups. One last year,
in fact."
Cameron frowned in frustration. "Then it's your opinion that she's not
able to survive in a normal society?"
"That's it," answered the medicouncilor bluntly. "You'll have to face
the truth--you can't get rid of any of them."
"With or without their cooperation, I'll manage," said Cameron.
"I'm sure you will." The medicouncilor's manner didn't ooze
confidence. "Of course, if you need help we can send reinforcements."
The implication was clear enough. "I'll keep them out of trouble,"
Cameron promised.
The picture and the voice were fading. "It's up to you. If it turns
out to be too difficult, get in touch with the Medicouncil...."
The robot operator broke in: "The ship is beyond direct telecom range.
If you wish to continue the conversation, it will have to be relayed
through the nearest main station. At present, that is Mars."
Aside from the time element, which was considerable, it wasn't likely
that he would get any better answers than he could supply for himself.
Cameron shook his head. "We are through, thanks."
He got heavily to his feet. That wasn't a psychological reaction at
all. He really was heavier. He made a mental note. He would have to
investigate.
In a way they were pathetic--the patchwork humans, the half or quarter
men and women, the fractional organisms masquerading as people--an
illusion which died hard for them. Medicine and surgery were partly to
blame. Techniques were too good, or not good enough, depending on the
viewpoint.
Too good in that the most horribly injured person, if he were still
alive, could be kept alive! Not good enough because a percentage of
the injured couldn't be returned to society completely sound and
whole. There weren't many like that; but there were some, and all of
them were on the asteroid.
They didn't like it. At least they didn't like being _confined_ to
Handicap Haven. It wasn't that they wanted to go back to the society
of the normals, for they realized how conspicuous they'd be among the
multitudes of beautiful, healthy people on the planets.
What the accidentals did want was ridiculous. They desired, they
hoped, they petitioned to be the first to make the long, hard journey
to Alpha and Proxima Centauri in rockets. Trails of glory for those
that went; a vicarious share in it for those who couldn't.
Nonsense. The broken people, those without a face they could call
their own, those who wore their hearts not on their sleeves, but in a
blood-pumping chamber, those either without limbs or organs--or too
many. The categories seemed endless.
The accidentals were qualified, true. In fact, of all the billions of
solar citizens, _they alone could make the journey and return_. But
there were other factors that ruled them out. The first point was
never safe to discuss with them, especially if the second had to be
explained. It would take a sadistic nature that Cameron didn't
possess.
* * * * *
Docchi sat beside the pool. It was pleasant enough, a pastoral scene
transplanted from Earth. A small tree stretched shade overhead. Waves
lapped and made gurgling sounds against the sides. No plant life of
any kind grew and no fish swam in the liquid. It looked like water,
but it wasn't. It was acid. In it floated something that monstrously
resembled a woman.
[Illustration]
"They turned us down, Anti," Docchi said bitterly.
"Didn't you expect it?" the creature in the pool asked.
"I guess I didn't."
"You don't know the Medicouncil very well."
"Evidently I don't." He stared sullenly at the faintly blue fluid.
"Why did they turn us down?"
"Don't you know?"
"All right, I know," he said. "They're pretty irrational."
"Of course, irrational. Let them be that way, as long as we don't
follow their example."
"I wish I knew what to do," he said. "Cameron suggested we wait."
"Biocompensation," murmured Anti, stirring restlessly. "They've always
said that. Up to now it's always worked."
"What else can we do?" asked Docchi. Angrily he kicked at an anemic
tuft of grass. "Draw up another request?"
"Memorandum number ten? Let's not be naive about it. Things get lost
so easily in the Medicouncil's filing system."
"Or distorted," grunted Docchi.
"Maybe we should give the Medicouncil a rest. They're tired of hearing
us anyway."
"I see what you mean," said Docchi, rising.
"Better talk to Jordan about it."
"I intend to. I'll need arms."
"Good. I'll see you when you leave for far Centauri."
"Sooner than that, Anti. Much sooner."
Stars were beginning to wink. Twilight brought out shadows and tracery
of the structure that supported the transparent dome overhead. Soon
controlled slow rotation would bring darkness to this side of the
asteroid.
* * * * *
Cameron leaned back and looked speculatively at the gravital engineer,
Vogel. The man could give him considerable assistance, if he would.
There was no reason why he shouldn't; but any man who had voluntarily
remained on Handicap Haven as long as Vogel had was a doubtful
quantity.
"Usually we maintain about half Earth-normal gravity," Cameron said.
"Isn't that correct?"
Engineer Vogel nodded.
"It isn't important why those limits were set," Cameron continued.
"Perhaps it's easier on the weakened bodies of the accidentals. There
may be economic factors."
"No reason for those limits except the gravital units themselves,"
Vogel said. "Theoretically it should be easy to get any gravity you
want. Practically, though, we get between a quarter and almost full
Earth gravity. Now take the fluctuations. The gravital computer is set
at fifty per cent. Sometimes we get fifty per cent and sometimes
seventy-five. Whatever it is, it just is and we have to be satisfied."
The big engineer shrugged. "I hear the units were designed especially
for this asteroid," he went on. "Some fancy medical reason. Easier on
the accidentals to have less gravity change, you say. Me, I dunno. I'd
guess the designers couldn't help it and the reason was dug up later."
Cameron concealed his irritation. He wanted information, not a
heart-to-heart confession. "All practical sciences try to justify
whatever they can't escape but would like to. Medicine, I'm sure, is
no exception." He paused thoughtfully. "Now, there are three separate
gravital units on the asteroid. One runs for forty-five minutes while
the other two are idle. Then it cuts off and another takes over. This
is supposed to be synchronized. I don't have to tell you that it
isn't. You felt your weight increase suddenly at the same time I did.
What is wrong?"
"Nothing wrong," said the engineer. "That's what you get with
gravital."
"You mean they're supposed to run that way? Overlapping so that for
five minutes we have Earth or Earth-and-a-half gravity and then none?"
"It's not _supposed_ to be that way," said Vogel. "But nobody ever
built a setup like this that worked any better." He added defensively:
"Of course, if you want, you can check with the company that makes
these units."
"I'm not trying to challenge your knowledge, and I'm not anxious to
make myself look silly. I have a sound reason for asking these
questions. There is a possibility of sabotage."
The engineer's grin was wider than the remark seemed to require.
"All right," said Cameron tiredly. "Suppose you tell me why sabotage
is so unlikely."
"Well," explained the gravital engineer, "it would have to be someone
living here, and he wouldn't like it if he suddenly got double or
triple gravity or maybe none at all. But there's another reason. Now
take a gravital unit. Any gravital unit. Most people think of it as
just that--a unit. It isn't really that at all. It has three parts.
"One part is a power source that can be anything as long as it's big
enough. Our power source is a nuclear pile, buried deep in the
asteroid. You'd have to take Handicap Haven apart to get to it. Part
two is the gravital coil, which actually produces the gravity and is
simple and just about indestructible. Part three is the gravital
control. It calculates the relationship between the amount of power
flowing through the gravital coil and the strength of the created
gravity field in any one microsecond. It uses the computed
relationship to alter the power flowing through in the next
microsecond to get the same gravity. No change of power, no gravity. I
guess you could call the control unit a computer, as good a one as is
made for any purpose."
The engineer rubbed his chin. "Fatigue," he continued. "The gravital
control is an intricate computer that's subject to fatigue. That's why
it has to rest an hour and a half to do forty-five minutes of work.
Naturally they don't want anyone tinkering with it. It's
non-repairable. Crack the case open and it won't work. But first you
have to open it. Mind you, that can be done. But I wouldn't want to
try it without a high-powered lab setup."
If it didn't seem completely foolproof, neither did it seem a likely
source of trouble. "Then we can forget about the gravital units," said
Cameron, arising. "But what about hand weapons? Are there any
available?"
"You mean toasters?"
"Anything that's lethal."
"Nothing. No knives even. Maybe a stray bar or so of metal." Vogel
scratched his head. "There is something dangerous, though. Dangerous
if you know how to take hold of it."