Kate Wilhelm in Orbit - Volume Two (25 page)

“How did your people know about the accident?” David asked. “No one else knew.”

W-l shrugged. A time-consumer question, he seemed to imply. “We just knew.”

“What are you doing in the lab now?” David asked, and heard a strained note in his voice. Somehow he had been made to feel like an interloper; his question sounded like idle chatter.

“Perfecting the methods,” W-l said. “The usual thing.”

And something else, David thought, but he didn’t press it. “The equipment should be in excellent shape for another ten years or more,” he said. “And the methods, while probably not the best conceivable, are efficient enough. Why tamper now, when the experiment seems to be proving itself?” For a moment he thought he saw a flicker of surprise cross W-l’s face, but it was gone too swiftly and once more the smooth mask revealed nothing.

“Remember when one of your women killed one of us a long time ago, David? Hilda murdered the child of her own likeness. We all shared that death, and we realized that each of you is alone. We’re not like you, David. I think you know it, but now you must accept it.” He stood up. “And we won’t go back to what you have.’’

David stood up also, and his legs felt curiously weak. He gripped the edge of the desk. “What exactly do you mean?”

“Sexual reproduction isn’t the only answer. Just because the higher organisms evolved to it doesn’t mean it’s the best. Each time a species has died out, there has been another higher one to replace it.”

“Cloning is one of the worst ways for a higher species,” David said. “It stifles diversity.” The weakness in his legs seemed to be climbing, and he felt his hands start to tremble. He clenched the desk harder.

“That’s assuming diversity is beneficial. Perhaps it isn’t,” W-l said. “You pay a high price for individuality.”

“There is still the decline and the inevitable slide to extinction,” David said. “Have you got around that?” He wanted suddenly to end this conversation, to hurry from the sterile office and the smooth unreadable face with the sharp eyes that seemed to know what he was feeling.

“Not yet,” W-l said slowly. “But we have the fertile members to fall back on until we do.” He moved around his desk and walked toward the door. “I have to check my patients,” he said, and held the door open for David.

“Before I leave,” David said, “will you tell me what is the matter with Walt?”

“Don’t you know?” W-1 shook his head. “I keep forgetting, you don’t tell each other things, do you? He has cancer. Inoperable. It metastasized. He’s dying, David. I thought you knew that.”

David walked blankly for an hour or more, and finally found himself in his room, exhausted, unwilling yet to go to bed. He sat at his window until it was dawn, and then he went to Walt’s room. When Walt woke up he reported what W-1 had told him.

“They’ll use the fertile ones only to replenish their supply of clones,” he said. “The humans among them will be pariahs. They’ll destroy what we worked so hard to create.”

“Don’t let them do it, David. For God’s sake, don’t let them do it!” Walt’s color was bad, and he was too weak to sit up. “Vlasic’s mad, so he’ll be of no help. You have to stop them somehow.” Bitterly he said, “They want to take the easy way out, give up now when we know everything will work.”

David didn’t know if he was sorry or glad that he had told Walt. No more secrets, he thought. Never again. “I’ll stop them somehow,” he said. “I don’t know how, or when. But soon.”

A Four brought Walt’s breakfast, and David returned to his room. He rested and slept fitfully for a few hours, then showered and went to the cave entrance, where he was stopped by a Two.

“I’m sorry, David,” he said. “Jonathan says that you need a rest, that you are not to work now.”

Wordlessly David turned and left. Jonathan. W-l. If they had decided to bar him from the lab, they could do it. He and Walt had planned it that way: the cave was impregnable. He thought of the elders, forty-four of them left, and two of that number terminally ill. One of the remaining elders insane. Forty-one then, twenty-nine women. Eleven able-bodied men. Ninety-four clones.

He waited for days for Harry Vlasic to appear, but no one had seen him in weeks, and Vernon thought he was living in the lab. He had all his meals there. David gave that up; he found D-1 in the dining room and offered his help in the lab.

“I’m too bored doing nothing,” he said. “I’m used to working twelve hours a day or more.”

“You should rest now that there are others who can take the load off you,” D-l said pleasantly. “Don’t worry about the work, David. It is going quite well.” He moved away, and David caught his arm.

“Why won’t you let me in? Haven’t you learned the value of an objective opinion?”

D-l pulled away, and still smiling easily, said, “You want to destroy everything, David. In the name of mankind, of course. But still, we can’t let you do that.”

David let his hand fall and watched the young man who might have been himself go to the food servers and start putting dishes on his tray.

“I’m working on a plan,” he lied to Walt again and again in the weeks that followed. Daily Walt grew feebler, and now he was in great pain.

David’s father was with Walt most of the time now. He was gray and aged but in good health physically. He talked of their boyhood, of the coming hunting season, of the recession he feared might reduce his profits, of his wife, who had been dead for fifteen years. He was cheerful and happy, and Walt seemed to want him there.

In March, W-l sent for David. He was in his office. “It’s about Walt,” he said. “We should not let him continue to suffer. He has done nothing to deserve this.”

“He is trying to last until the girls have their babies,” David said. “He wants to know.”

“But it doesn’t matter any longer,” W-l said patiently. “And meanwhile he suffers.”

David stared at him with hatred.

W-l continued to watch him for several more moments, then said, “We will decide.” The next morning it was found that Walt had died in his sleep.

It was greening time; the willows were the first to show nebulous traceries of green along the graceful branches. Forsythias and flaming bushes were in bloom, brilliant yellows and scarlets against the gray background. The river was high with spring runoffs up north and heavy March rains, but it was an expected high, not dangerous, not threatening this year. The air had a balminess that had been missing since September; the air was soft and smelled of wet woods and fertile earth. David sat on the slope overlooking the farm. There were calves in the field, and they looked the way spring calves always had looked: thin legs, awkward, slightly stupid. No fields had been worked yet, but the garden was green: pale lettuce, blue-green kale, green spears of onions, dark green cabbage. The newest wing of the hospital, not yet painted, crude compared to the finished brick buildings, was being used already, and he could even see some of the young people at the windows studying. They had the best teachers, themselves, and the best students. They learned amazingly well from one another, better than they had in the early days.

They came out of the school in matched sets: four of this, three of that, two of another. He sought and found three Celias. He could no longer tell them apart; they were all grown-up Celias now and indistinguishable. He watched them with no feeling of desire; no hatred moved him; no love. They vanished into the barn and he looked up over the farm, into the hills on the other side of the valley. The ridges were hazy and had no sharp edges anywhere. They looked soft and welcoming. Soon, he thought. Soon. Before the dogwoods bloomed.

The night the first baby was born, there was another celebration. The elders talked among themselves, laughed at their own jokes, drank wine; the clones left them alone and partied at the other end of the room. When Vernon began to play his guitar and dancing started, David slipped away. He wandered on the hospital grounds for a few minutes, as though aimlessly, and then, when he was certain no one had followed him out, he began to trot toward the mill and the generator. Six hours, he thought. Six hours without electricity would destroy everything in the lab.

David approached the mill cautiously, hoping the rushing water of the creek would mask any sound he might make. The building was three stories high, very large, with windows ten feet above the ground, on the level where the offices were. The ground floor was filled with machinery. In the back the hill rose sharply; David could reach the windows by bracing himself on the steep incline and steadying himself with one hand on the building. He found a window that went up easily when he pushed it, and in a moment he was inside a dark office. He closed the window, and then, moving slowly with his hands outstretched to avoid any obstacle, he crossed the room to the door and opened it a crack. The mill was never left unattended, but he hoped that those on duty tonight would be down with the machinery. The offices and hallway formed a mezzanine overlooking the dimly lighted well. Grotesque shadows made the hallway strange, with deep pools of darkness and places where he would be clearly visible should any one happen to look up at the right moment. Suddenly David stiffened. Voices.

He slipped his shoes off and opened the door wider. The voices were below him. Soundlessly he ran toward the control room, keeping close to the wall. He was almost to the door when the lights came on all over the building. There was a shout, and he could hear them running up the stairs. He made a dash for the door, and yanked it open, slammed it behind him. There was no way to lock it. He pushed a file cabinet an inch or so, gave up, and picked up a metal stool by its legs. He raised it and swung it hard against the main control panel. At the same moment he felt a crushing pain in his shoulders, and he stumbled and fell forward as the lights went out.

He opened his eyes painfully. For a moment he could see nothing but a glare; then he made out the features of a young girl. She was reading a book, concentrating on it. Dorothy? She was his cousin Dorothy. He tried to rise, and she looked up and smiled at him.

“Dorothy? What are you doing here?” He couldn’t get off the bed. On the other side of the room a door opened and Walt came in, also very young, unlined, with his nice brown hair ruffled.

David’s head began to hurt and he reached up to find bandages that came down almost to his eyes. Slowly memory came back and he closed his eyes, willing the memory to fade away again, to let them be Dorothy and Walt.

“How do you feel?” W-1 asked. David felt his cool fingers on his wrist. “You’ll be all right. A slight concussion. Badly bruised, I’m afraid. You’re going to be pretty sore for a while.”

Without opening his eyes David asked, “Did I do much damage?”

“Very little,” W-l said.

Two days later David was asked to attend a meeting in the cafeteria. His head was still bandaged, but with little more than a strip of adhesive now. His shoulder ached. He went to the cafeteria slowly, with two of the clones as escorts.

Most of them were in the cafeteria. D-l stood up and offered David a chair at the front of the room. David accepted it silently and sat down to wait. D-l remained standing.

“Do you remember our class discussions about instinct, David?” D-1 asked. “We ended up agreeing that probably there are no instincts, only conditioned responses to certain stimuli. We have changed our minds about that. We agree now that there is still the instinct to preserve one’s species. Preservation of the species is a very strong instinct, a drive, if you will.” He looked at David and asked, “What are we to do with you?”

“Don’t be an ass,” David said sharply. “You are not a separate species.”

D-l didn’t reply. None of them moved. They were watching him quietly, intelligently, dispassionately. David stood up and pushed his chair back. “Then let me work. I’ll give you my word of honor that I won’t try to disrupt anything again.”

D-l shook his head. “We discussed that. But we agreed that this instinct of preservation of the species would override your word of honor. As it would our own.”

David felt his hands clench and he straightened his fingers, forced them to relax. “Then you have to kill me.”

“We talked about that too,” D-1 said gravely. “We don’t want to do that. We owe you too much. In time we will erect statues to you, Walt, Harry. We have very carefully recorded all of your efforts in our behalf. Our gratitude and affection for you won’t permit us to kill you.”

David looked about the room again, picking out familiar faces. Dorothy. Walt. Vernon. Margaret. Herbie. Celia. They all met his gaze without flinching. Here and there one of them smiled at him faintly.

“You tell me then,” he said finally.

“You have to go away,” D-l said. “You will be escorted for three days, downriver. There is a cart loaded with food, seeds, a few tools. The valley is fertile, the seeds will do well. It is a good time of year for starting a garden.”

W-2 was one of the three to accompany him for the first three days. They didn’t speak. The boys took turns pulling the cart of supplies. David didn’t offer to pull it. At the end of the third day, on the other side of the river from the Sumner farm, they left him. W-2 lingered for a moment and said, “They wanted me to tell you, David. One of the girls you call Celia has conceived. One of the boys you call David impregnated her. They wanted you to know.” Then he turned and joined the others. They vanished among the trees very quickly.

David slept where they had left him, and in the morning he continued south, leaving the cart behind, taking only enough food for the next few days. He stopped once to look at a maple seedling sheltered among the pines. He touched the soft green leaves very gently. On the sixth day he reached the Wiston farm; alive in his memory was the day he had waited there for Celia. The white oak tree that was his friend was the same, perhaps larger, he couldn’t tell. He could not see the sky through its branches covered with new, vivid green leaves. He made a leanto and slept under the tree that night, and the next morning he told it good-bye solemnly and began to climb the slopes overlooking the farm. The house was still there, but the barn was gone, and the other outbuildings—swept away by the flood they had made so long ago.