Statesman (17 page)

I glanced across at Spirit, who had remained mute throughout. It was possible that we knew something the doctor didn't.

The nurse concluded the dialysis. Thanks to my discussion with the doctor, the hours had passed without notice. They cleaned up the equipment and put it away, and restored my loop to its normal loop configuration, and gave me the neutralizer to the heparin employed to prevent clotting during treatment.

Smilo came up, and I stroked his massive head. “Don't chew on that loop,” I cautioned him. I had been afraid at one point that the odor of blood would unhinge his equilibrium, but he was a well-fed tiger, and he knew the smell of my blood and would not attack me. Henceforth he would not be sedated during my treatments.

But some hours later I got up to get something to eat—my diet was temporarily severely restricted, to prevent avoidable accumulation of wastes or fluid—and passed out without warning. The next thing I knew, the doctor was back. Evidently he had done something to restore me. “What happened?” I asked.

“Heparin rebound,” he said curtly.

“Say in layman's terms?”

“We give you heparin to prevent clotting,” he explained. “But the blood's ability to clot is an important survival feature; without it you would be hemophiliac, and could suffer internal bleeding. So after the treatment we neutralize the heparin. Unfortunately, sometimes the neutralizer wears off before the heparin is out of the system, so the heparin rebounds when it isn't wanted. Evidently my error; every human body is unique to itself, and I misjudged your tolerances. I shall see that it doesn't happen again.”

He was a competent and honest man, and very good with explanations. I had confidence in him.

Evidently I had rated the best.

In due course they did the biopsy and confirmed the diagnosis: chronic nephritis. “Actually, glomerulonephritis,” the doctor said. “The glomerulus is the filter at the beginning of the nephron. Your own immune system did you in.”

“How's that?” I asked, alarmed.

“Your food poisoning evidently had an infective component,” he said. "That is, it came across like a disease, and your immune system fought it. You seem to have an extraordinarily effective immune system.

I researched the Saturn records on your prior episode, and discovered that this particular strain was unusually harmful, and you received a double dose. You could have died; some did, from the single dose.

But you recovered remarkably. Unfortunately, in some cases the body's immune system mistakes some of its own tissue for that of the harmful intrusion, and the glomerulus is especially subject to such error. So your system made antibodies against your own glomeruli, and systematically took them out. Now that process is virtually complete. Had your immune system been less vigilant—"

“I have a good immune system,” I agreed glumly. “It can throw off any drug.”

“Well, that is not precisely the way it operates—”

“It's the way mine works,” I said. “I cannot be addicted. It helped me throw off the mem-wash rapidly enough to save my political career, too.”

He did not debate the issue, but I could see he did not believe this. He departed.

“This is going to interfere with a transplant, too,” Spirit said. “No way your system will tolerate a foreign kidney.”

I nodded glumly. “Maybe the doctor will have an answer.”

The doctor did. “Immunosuppressive therapy,” he said. “Standard procedure for transplantation. We go for the closest possible tissue match, then damp down the immune response.”

“Better test it first,” I warned.

“Naturally.”

He tested it—and my body threw off the immune suppressive drug. This didn't occur immediately, but the doctor was monitoring my response closely, and very soon realized what was happening. In addition, my body had built up an immunity to the heparin, and clotting was a problem again. They had to change to a different anticoagulant, and establish a loop on a new site. “I have never encountered this before,” the doctor admitted, intrigued.

It was evident that the transplant the doctor had planned on would not be feasible; my immune response could not be permanently suppressed, other than by heroic measures that we agreed were not warranted.

“But we can use a synthetic kidney. That's one grown from neutral tissue in the laboratory, that does not excite the immune response. Unfortunately, it is relatively bulky and clumsy, being three times the size of a normal one. But it will do the job.”

“All the same, better test me for reaction to it,” I said.

He did—and my body rejected it. “This is unique in the annals of medicine!” the doctor exclaimed, almost with admiration. “Your body really can reject inanimate substances!”

I was not as thrilled with this confirmation as he seemed to be. “No synthetic kidney, then.”

He sobered. “I'm afraid not. However, dialysis is not merely a short-term expedient. We can set you up for CAPD—”

“For what?”

“CAPD. Continuous ambulatory peritoneal dialysis. That employs your own peritoneal membrane, so there is no problem of rejection. The fluid is put into your abdomen, and the blood filters through—”

“And my membrane would heal to cut off what it took to be leakage,” I said grimly. “Can you test for that?”

He ran his tests, and confirmed my suspicion. “This is truly amazing,” he said, evidently thinking of the case history he would write on this that would make him famous. “Your body renders itself impervious to modification by such means.”

“This has been quite useful in the past,” I said. “But it is losing its appeal.”

“Still,” he said with a certain artificial cheer, “regular dialysis can be rendered almost as convenient. We can set up an AV shunt—”

“A what?”

“An arteriovenous shunt. That is, a direct connection between an artery and a vein, using no plastic loop, so there is no clotting problem. This can be tapped into for each dialysis.”

“May not work,” I warned him.

He tried it, and it did work—for a couple of dialyses. Then the clotting got bad, and when the surgeon checked into it, he discovered that my blood vessels were healing, and the shunt was in the process of being cut out and the normal separate artery and vein bloodflow restored. My body would not tolerate the foreign meddling.

Thus we were reduced to the loop, which even with the anticoagulants was only good for as few as three dialysis sessions before the clotting became too awkward. The clotting was because my body was laboring to heal itself, but it was dangerous, just as my immune system's attack on my own kidneys had been dangerous to my long-term health. My system was too independent for its own good.

“How long can this continue?” I asked the doctor.

“We are much more efficient at developing sites for dialysis,” he said with assumed cheer. “It is unfortunate that we can not reuse a site once we have finished with it; the scar tissue and the threat of clotting prevent that. But we do far less damage than was done when this technique was new. I'd say you can continue for a decade or more, by which time there could be a breakthrough that would extend it further.”

“But my illness must not be known,” I said. “How long can it continue without showing?”

“You mean, on your arms? You want them free of scar tissue? And your neck? That cuts it in half, approximately.”

Half. Five years. I was sixty-four years old now; that set my limit at sixty-nine. Somehow I had thought I would live forever; now it was clear that this had been overly optimistic.

“I'll need to travel,” I said. “Can I be dialyzed elsewhere in the System?”

“Why, certainly,” he agreed heartily. “There are dialysis clinics on every planet.”

“Without outsiders knowing?”

“That I can't say. Each planet has its own regulations.”

“Can I hire your nurse to go with me, so it can be done privately?”

He smiled. "Tyrant, you don't need to go to such an extreme. We can train you for home dialysis.

Designate someone on your staff, and—"

“I'll do it,” Forta said immediately. “I have had some experience with field medicine; I'm sure I can handle this.”

“It is not hard to learn,” the doctor said. "The process has been greatly simplified since the early days.

But it requires serious commitment, because one mistake can be like forgetting to seal your suit before stepping outside the dome."

“She can handle it,” I said. I knew Spirit would be willing to do it, but Spirit was busy running the show; it was better to leave her free for that.

So Forta trained for dialysis, and in due course she handled the job, three times a week. She learned rapidly and well; her only bad moment in training was when the nurse slipped some dye into the works, and it looked as if the dialysis machine were leaking blood. This might seem like a cruel prank. It was cruel, but a necessary part of the training. Forta took one appalled look at the leak and launched me into the bypass mode so that my blood no longer coursed through the machine. Then, saying nothing to me, she opened the machine to check the tubing. All was in order. Unwilling to accept that, she inspected every aspect of the process closely, and finally located the source of the “leak”: the vial of dye. She made a kind of growl in her throat that set Smilo's ears perking, and fished out the vial. She resumed the dialysis, and when the nurse made a “routine” check Forta acted as if nothing had happened. This might have been a mistake, because if a genuine leak went unnoticed, disaster could follow. But when the nurse discovered that the vial was gone, she knew, and Forta passed. I had been tuning in to a program on a holo, and hadn't even realized that anything had happened; I picked this up later. We learned that this was a regular part of such training. Suppose a real leak developed when there was no professional nurse available to set it right? The home dialyzer had to be competent, and to keep her head in the crisis.

There was of course more to my malady than this, but I believe I have covered it sufficiently. I acclimated to the regimen, and learned to cope with the postdialysis depression, which was a physiological thing, and to schedule public appearances when I knew I'd be in my best form. I was now dependent in a literal way on the machine and on Forta, but was able to cope. Between times, Emerald was with me, and yes, I could still make love, though not as frequently or as vigorously as before.

Emerald was very good for this, being ready to take the active role, and I valued her support for other reasons than this. So the fact is, this period of my life was not one long depression; it was a series of brief depressions, and a constant challenge to find new and unobtrusive sites to tap into my blood supply. My legs developed an increasing pattern of scar tissue. But Forta was not one to be turned off by scar tissue, and in this devious way I found myself thankful, for the first time, that she was as she was.

Meanwhile, the galactic project grew, and it was evident that it was going to be a success. But we needed more financial and industrial support, and more raw materials. After two years on Triton, it was time for me to travel again.

We shipped to Mars via the projector; not only was it much faster than regular travel, it was a matter of principle. Every time the Tyrant made such a trip, the entire System took note, and gained confidence; the new process really did work. The receiver tube had been moved there in advance, of course.

Mars had been colonized by what was, loosely, the Moslem community of Old Earth, which had occupied parts of Asia, Africa, and Europe. On Earth this had been the major site for the production of oil, then an important power source. Today it was an equally major site for iron, and the leverage this provided the nations of Mars was similar. The Iron Producing Energy Cartel, or IPEC, had levered the price of iron phenomenally high, squeezing the rest of the System unmercifully. Then alternate sources of power were developed, notably solar energy, and the demand for iron decreased. Today IPEC was in disarray, with no immediate prospect of improvement. The iron nations had allowed themselves to become dependent on the huge income from their iron exports, and were having difficulty cutting back.

Several of them were overproducing iron, in violation of IPEC's guidelines, and so the price continued to drift erratically down.

It was a situation that I expected to change.

We emerged from the tube at the Mars orbit and proceeded to our rendezvous with the red planet. And I received a surprise.

With each location, I had had another woman. There had been Tasha at Saturn, and Juana at Uranus, and Emerald at Neptune. I thought the most luscious of my early women, Roulette, would manifest next, and I confess I looked forward to that. But instead I discovered Shelia, my longtime executive secretary and later lover, confined to a wheelchair.

It was Forta, of course; Shelia was dead. But I think I gaped, the first time I saw her, for she was so very like the woman I remembered, in appearance and nature, that I was virtually overwhelmed. A wig, a mask, skin cream to render her Saxon, and the wheelchair—oh, what a memory she evoked!

“What are you doing here?” I asked, somewhat inanely.

“I have a score to settle with Big Iron,” she replied.

I went into another loop of memory. Big Iron had tried to assassinate me, but its cleverly intricate plan had been foiled by Shelia, who had sacrificed her life for mine. In vengeance I had destroyed Big Iron, washing its corporate body in genuine blood. I had set up the Shelia Foundation, to minister to those injured in the legs, as Shelia had been. I had tipped somewhat into madness, the northwest wind governing my awareness, trying to recover her in my fancy, but unfortunately my sanity had returned and she was gone.

Now she was back, in a manner I could accept, and I understood. Iron had killed her; Mars was the source of iron. The iron magnates of Jupiter were gone; I had nationalized all their assets, and that shattered egg would never be reassembled. But Big Iron was not merely a Jupiter phenomenon; it was a System phenomenon. IPEC had no known complicity in Shelia's death and the madness of the Tyrant, but certainly a measure of sympathy.

When the leaders of Mars saw my secretary, they would wet their pants, perhaps not merely figuratively.

All the buried guilt of their association and cooperation with Big Iron of Jupiter would surge forth, and the veritable fear of Allah would besiege them in the form of the Tyrant. The executives of iron were as tough as their product, but they would feel the acid of uncertainty now. That was good.

“But I think not at first,” I said, as I pondered this. “Timing...”

“Timing,” Shelia agreed, smiling.

I couldn't help myself. I went to her, flung my arms about her and her chair, and kissed her waiting lips.

I had become somewhat accustomed to Forta's powers of emulation, but each new demonstration impressed me again. The signals were there; in total darkness and without the wheelchair I would have known that those lips were Shelia's. She was all soft and subdued and accepting in exactly the way I had known, and even the wholesome faint body odor of her was the same. The chair and the clothing were merely props for the less perceptive observers to note.

I lifted my head and gazed at her. The mask was so realistic as to be almost impossible to spot, and the way my eyes were tearing I could not have detected it anyway. What a woman!

“Oh, Hope,” she said with resignation. “You've gotten your face smeared.” And she lifted a handkerchief to wipe off the lipstick.

I buried my face in the warm hollow of her neck and cried. She held me, patting my back reassuringly.

In due course she cleaned me up again, though her own face was smeared, her hair mussed.

Then she wheeled herself to her room, leaving me. I found a chair and sat in a daze until Forta returned.

“I think we had best take care of the dialysis,” she said in businesslike fashion. “It's a little early, but Spirit is setting up the first appointments for tomorrow, and you need to be in top shape then.”

“True.” I wondered how much of her impact on me was her talent, and how much was my developing weakness because of the wastes that had accumulated in my tissues. It is claimed that a person on dialysis can live a completely normal life, apart from the treatments, but this is an exaggeration; the awareness of one's dependence on the machine and the dialysis nurse never wholly departs, and the necessary cycling of one's life is not normal for one who never had to exert such discipline before. With me, also, there was the matter of repeated minor surgery for the emplacement of new loops. This was having a slowly destructive effect on the vessels of my legs. I wondered whether I would in time have to retire to a wheelchair. But, thinking of Shelia, I did not find that a horror. I only ever truly loved two women, but others came close, and I think Shelia was the closest, in her unassuming way.

As Forta proceeded through the dialysis, Smilo came to nap beside me, as had become his habit, and I stroked his great head. He did not purr; evidently that was not a trait of his breed. But he might as well have. I reflected on the manner that I always found myself surrounded by completely loyal and talented people, whatever my situation. It was true that it was my talent to recognize people for what they were, and to attract and hold the best. Still, it was not entirely my own doing; those people had come to me not because I summoned them but because they recognized my need and generously served it. Shelia was an example; we had hired her young and handicapped, perhaps doing her a favor. But as her extreme competence manifested, she could have obtained a lucrative job anywhere else. She had remained because of loyalty, and I think I had loved her, in my limited fashion, for a decade before I took her as a mistress—if, indeed, that is not a denigration of the relationship she offered. Then she had given her life for me....

I blinked, returning my attention to Forta as she worked. She had used her talent to become Shelia for a time, and this had been wholly real to me despite my knowledge of the situation. Now she was herself, angular and scarred and efficient. I remained amazed that a single woman could manifest in such different ways. Surely Forta was the most remarkable woman I had encountered, perhaps not even excluding those I loved. Yet much as I respected her nature and competence, I had no desire to embrace her in the fashion I had Shelia. I was foolish, of course; I was allowing the outer aspect to determine my inner feeling. I marveled at this attitude of mine almost as much as at her ability. The psychiatrists are wrong: to understand a thing is not the same as dealing with it. Forta's aspect was no mystery to me, but still it dominated my reaction to her.

When the dialysis was complete, I rested. One might wonder at this, as I had been relaxed throughout the treatment, waiting for the blood to circulate and be cleansed. But there is wear on the system, and rest and sleep was the best course following treatment. I wasn't hungry; my diet was restricted anyway, and it was easiest to include nourishment in the dialysis itself. I tended to get thirsty, but could not drink, because my body had no feasible way to eliminate the surplus fluid. So I could drink immediately before a dialysis, knowing that the treatment would take care of it, but not after.

All this meant that I tended to be out of sorts after treatment. Not truly depressed, despite the way I tend to think of it, because the dialysis also restored my system to equilibrium, and depression often is organic in origin. But unsatisfied. This time I lay on my bed, wishing that things were other than they were, resenting my incapacitating ailment. I had always been healthy and well coordinated; I did not like being old and limited.

Then the wheelchair rolled into the room. Suddenly my world brightened. I put out my hand, and she took it and held it to her bosom, and with a sigh of sheer contentment I slept.

Mars has about half the diameter of Earth, and about a tenth its mass. All the inner planets are tiny compared to the major outer planets, of course; Earth is less than a tenth the diameter of Jupiter, and Mercury is just about the same size as my body of origin, Callisto, technically a moon of Jupiter. Of course the inner planets have greater densities and masses than the outer moons, but it does provide perspective.

The economic and social impact of the inner planets is not minor, however. Their nearness to the sun gives them a phenomenal advantage in light energy, and they are rich in accessible minerals. This was of course what gave Mars its leverage: its minable iron. I have mentioned how the planet overplayed its hand, so to speak, and had fallen upon relatively hard times, but iron remains one of the most valuable resources of the System, and Mars remains its prime source.

Geographically, Mars is largely barren. Huge expanses of the surface are rocky desert, and though it has atmosphere, all human residence is within domes. For a long time it was thought that Mars had little water, but it turned out that there was a reasonable amount, and the cities really have not been in want on that score. There are periodic and phenomenal dust storms, that the domes weather without concern.

Sand dunes form and dissipate, and wind-sculpted patterns called yardangs are common. The largest volcano in the System is here: Olympus Mons, twenty-six kilometers tall.

Politically, the planet is violent. Its very name suggests war, and the reality conforms. It was colonized by the Moslem community of Earth, and the terrain demarked as seemed appropriate to those several nations. Each definition of “appropriate” was unique to the nation who made it, and warfare was chronic from the outset. But in a very general way, the colonists from mountainous Iran and Turkey took over the densely cratered elevations of southern Mars, while those from the regions closer to Earth sea level took the vast volcanic plains of Mars. Iron is mined throughout, though with the greatest facility in the Rabian region of Mars.

The source of greatest conflict has been Phobos, the larger of Mars' two tiny moons. Phobos has no iron, and is smaller than many fragments of the Belt. But it was settled by the folk of Israel, and the Moslem effort to eradicate the Jews was hardly abated by the shift of venue. Phobos could hardly have survived without the strong support of Jupiter, and the nations of Mars have tried incessantly to use the leverage of their iron to erode this support, without notable success. Phobos, weak on territory and physical resources, was strong on human resources, and alertly maintained its political influence on Jupiter. It had perhaps the finest intelligence (i.e., spy network) in the System, and its position in low orbit about the planet, barely six thousand kilometers above the surface, enabled it to watch virtually the entire planet closely and constantly. Still, survival remained chancy, and Phobos' economy was in chronic disarray.

I knew before I started that I could not get what I wanted from Mars without finding some sort of solution to the Phobos question. But what solution could there be to a problem that had existed for centuries, intractable to all other efforts? It was a Gordian knot, and it was generally conceded that only a fool would attempt to solve it.

Still, the Dream motivated me, and my time in life was now measured, so I was ready to play that fool.

The surface gravity of Mars was just over a third Earth-norm, and the escape velocity not much more, so our small ship was able to land directly on the planet. I went first to Rabia, as this was the richest of the nations. We settled in the port near the capitol, Yadh, and accepted a ride on an elegant coach to the city proper.

Yadh was a beautiful city. It had been revamped when the price of iron was high, and Rabia had been among the richest nations of the System, per capita. The landscape outside it was red and rocky barrens, but within the dome were exotic trees and elegantly sculptured modern buildings. It was possible to do more on a planet, particularly one with an atmosphere and reasonably stable surface, because larger domes could be made, and they didn't have to rotate for gee. The shield below the city focused the natural gravity, tripling it; that was all that was required. We caught glimpses of the veiled women of the city going about their business; if we hadn't know it before, this would have made it clear that we were not on Triton anymore.

We were taken to a palatial residence with the most modern appointments. There was even an exercise garden for Smilo, stocked with a number of rabbits. “Smilo doesn't eat rabbits!” Spirit muttered. “They're too small.” But as it turned out, the tiger did enjoy stalking them; it was the hunt that appealed, not the size of the prey. We left him alone to his garden of delights.

Well, almost alone. It seemed that there were holo pickups there. The Rabian representative explained this to us, somewhat diffidently: They would like to leave these on, so that the action could be broadcast for the edification of local viewers. It seemed that the rabbits had been dubbed infidels, while the tiger was the Scourge of Allah; many people were interested in the outcome of the hunt.

I consulted with Spirit, and shrugged. We were here to obtain the cooperation of these people with our project, and to enlist them in the Dream. If this helped...