Midworld (8 page)

The whole operation was very professional.

In the largest of those inner laboratories, the most intelligent of the station’s researchers studied the huge, ovoid chunk of dark wood that dominated the far end of the chamber. It had been cut open. This piece of wood had made all the expense and secrecy and effort worthwhile, and Wu Tsing-ahn had been working with it even before the construction of the station had been completed.

He was a small man, with delicate, tortured features and black hair turned prematurely white at odd places. The private agony which strained his face had not affected the clarity of his mind, or dulled his analytical abilities. Like everyone else in the station, he was aware that his activities on this planet were not in keeping with the Ordainments of the Church or Commonwealth law. Most were there for the money.

Tsing-ahn showed a certain fluttering of the hands, a twitch of both eyelids. Both were by-products of the drug which gave great pleasure at great expense. Tsing-ahn required it now, required it regularly in large doses. He had been forced to suspend his moral principles to satisfy the craving. But he didn’t care any more. Besides, the work was not especially difficult and was intellectually pleasing. There was emotional refuge in that.

There was a knock on the door across the room. Tsing-ahn acknowledged the knock, and a large man entered, his slight limp noticeable and unavoidable, contact lenses reflecting the steady overhead light. The man was no giant, but each of his biceps was bigger around than the biochemist’s thigh. He wore a holstered sidearm, prominently displayed.

“Hello, Nearchose.”

“Hello, Doc,” the big man responded. He crossed the room, nodded toward the pierced and cut section of wood. “Found out what makes it tick yet?”

“I’ve been reluctant to risk chancing its drug-producing properties until just now, Nearchose,” Wu replied softly. “Full dissection could destroy that.” He reached out and touched the wood.

Nearchose studied it. “How much you think a burl that size is gonna be worth, Doc?”

Tsing-ahn shrugged. “How much is a doubled lifespan worth to a man, Nearchose?” He gazed at the burl with something more than scientific detachment. “I’d guess a burl this size would yield enough extract to double the life-span of anywhere from two to three hundred people—not to mention what it will do for general health and well-being. No price has been put on the drug yet since it hasn’t been exported except in small, experimental doses. The proteins have proven complex beyond belief. Synthetic production appears out of the question. Dissection may offer clues as to further lines of research.” He looked up. “What would you pay for it, Nearchose?”

“Who, me?” The security guard smiled a crooked smile, showing metal teeth, which had replaced ones that had not been lost naturally. “I’ll die when my natural time comes, Doc. A man like me … I couldn’t ever afford the stuff. I’d give or do anything for it, of course, if I thought I could get away with it.”

Tsing-ahn nodded, “Far wealthier men will do likewise.” He winked. “Maybe I’ll slip you a vial of the next batch. How would that appeal to you, Nearchose?”

The guard’s genial manner faded. He looked solemnly down at his friend, whom he could break with one hand. “Don’t tease me like that, Doc. It’s not funny. To live a couple of hundred years in good health, instead of decomposing into pieces at seventy, maybe eighty … Don’t tease me with stuff like that.”

“Sorry, Nick. It’s a defense mechanism with me. I’ve got my own hurts, you know. It’s small and mean, but I fight back in these ways.”

Nearchose nodded. He knew of the biochemist’s addiction, of course. Everyone at the station did. The brilliant researcher Tsing-ahn was deficient in body, though he was not crippled or broken. Nearchose was deficient in mind, though he was neither stupid nor ignorant. Each recognized his superiority over others of his own kind at the station, so the friendship that sprung up between them was one between equals.

“I’ve got outside patrol this shift,” Nearchose announced, turning to leave. “I was just curious to see how everything’s going, that’s all.”

“Surely, Nick. Come in anytime.”

After the big man had left for his patrol duty, Tsing-ahn set up his instruments for the first full dissection of the invaluable burl. The operation could be put off no longer, despite the fact that this was the only burl of its kind found so far. Others would be located by the scout teams, he was certain. It was merely a question of time.

When extract from the burl’s center was given casually to an experimental carew, the results were unexpected, astonishing, overwhelming. Instead of two days, the hyperactive mammal had lived for nearly a week. He had repeated the experiment twice, not believing his own results. When they were confirmed the third time, he had announced his discovery to Hansen, the station director. The reaction of those funding the project had been predictable: More burls
must
be found. But exploring by skimmer was erratic and difficult. Land parties had been sent out, but they had been discontinued by Hansen despite complaints from above. Too many parties, no matter how heavily armed, had failed to return.

Tsing-ahn was still fascinated by the fact that this unhealthy protrusion of the tree might prove more useful than the tree itself. He thought of ancient Terran whales and ambergris. He was extremely anxious to study the internal structure of the burl. It had a softish center, according to long probes, quite unlike most burls, which were solid hardwood. And there was other evidence of a unique inner construction.

He worked at the dissection for several days, sawing and probing and cutting open. At the end of that time, a most unnatural and horrible scream shattered the peace of the station and sent people running from their posts to the laboratory of Wu Tsing-ahn.

Nearchose was the first one there. This time he didn’t ask permission to enter, but wrenched the door open, breaking the bolt. To his enormous surprise, Tsing-ahn stood facing him and looked up at him calmly. One hand was trembling slightly and an eyelid flickered, but that was only normal.

A crowd had gathered behind Nearchose. He turned, shooed them away. “Nothing to see. Everything’s okay. The Doc had a bigger bad-dream than he’s used to, that’s all.”

“You sure, Nick?” someone asked hesitantly.

“Sure, Maria. I’ll handle it.” The crowd dribbled away muttering among themselves as Nearchose closed the broken door.

“What’s the trouble, Nick? Why the indelicate entrance?”

The guard turned to him, studied the man whom he often did not understand, but whom he unfailingly respected. “That was you that screamed, Doc.” It wasn’t a question.

Tsing-ahn nodded. “That was me, yes, Nick.” He looked away. “I’m flying on my morning dose and … I thought I saw something. I don’t have your mental resilience, Nick, and I’m afraid I let it get a hold of me for a second. Sorry if it disturbed everyone.”

“Sure, yeah,” Nearchose finally replied. “Worried about you, that’s all. Everyone does, you know.”

“Sure, yeah,” Tsing-ahn echoed bitterly.

Nearchose fidgeted uneasily in the silence, looked past the scientist toward the far end of the lab. “How’s the work coming?”

Tsing-ahn answered absently, his mind obviously elsewhere. “Well. Better than one might expect. Yes, quite well. I should have some definite announcements to make in a couple of days.”

“That’s great, Doc.” Nearchose turned to go, paused. “Listen, Wu, if you need anything, anything you’d rather not go through channels for …”

Tsing-ahn smiled faintly. “Of course, Nick. You’ll be the first one I turn to.”

The security guard grinned reassuringly and closed the door quietly behind him. Tsing-ahn returned to his work. He proceeded calmly once more and with his accustomed efficiency.

Nothing else disturbed the tranquility of the station until that evening, when a passerby thought he smelled something unusual in the corridor outside the lab. Following the odor led to visual confirmation—dark wisps of smoke issuing from the cracks around Wu’s laboratory door. The man yelled “
Fire!
” and hit the nearest all-purpose station alarm.

This time others reached the lab well ahead of Nearchose. He had to work his way through the personnel who were putting out the last pockets of flame. Containment had been achieved before the blaze could spread beyond the confines of the lab but the lab itself, was a complete wreck. The fire had been brief, but intense. Not only was there plenty of flammable material within the lab, but Tsing-ahn had apparently utilized white phosphorous on stubborn materials and acids on anything that refused to ignite. The little biochemist had been as methodical in destruction as he had been in research.

Everyone clustered around the few charred scraps of wood that were scattered around the back of the lab. They were all that remained of the burl which had been worth untold millions. Nearchose’s main concern lay elsewhere, so it was he who first found the body sprawled under a table across the room. At first he assumed the scientist had died of smoke inhalation, since there were no marks on his body. Then he rolled him over and the white cap slid off. Nearchose saw the needler still clutched convulsively in one hand, saw the tiny holes of equal diameter on both the front and back of the skull. He knew what a needler did, knew he could slip a pencil neatly through that hole.

The man’s eyes were closed and his expression, for the first time that Nearchose could remember, was content.

Nearchose stood up. The pitiable, weak genius below him had run across something that had impelled him to his own death. Nearchose had no idea what that thing might be and was not sure he would care to know. No man is perfect. An old sergeant had first repeated that cliche to him. For all his brilliance, Tsing-ahn had been less perfect than most. A scrap of note here, a page of book there were all that had survived.

Employed at the station were a lesser biochemist named Celebes and a botanist named Chittagong. Together they did not quite make up one Tsing-ahn, but they were the best Hansen had. They were taken off their projects of the moment, and given the carefully gathered bits of paper and scraps of notebook, and ordered to undertake the reconstruction of Tsing-ahn’s work. Eventually, a second burl of the type carbonized in the fire was located and brought back. It was presented to Chittagong and Celebes, who worked with it, while newly installed security monitors watched constantly, checking everything from the scientists’ heartbeats to the growls in their stomachs. Both men were less than enthusiastic about the project, especially concerning the manner of their comrade’s death. However, the orders came down from an enraged person at a large desk many parsecs away. They were not to be disputed.

Nearchose returned to his duties. He sat at his gimbal post and brooded on what there was in a simple hunk of wood that impelled someone as rational as Tsing-ahn to go off the deep end. Such things happened, and he need not concern himself with them. But he could not help it.

He sighed, and forced himself to turn his gaze and attention to the surrounding wall of forest.

God damn, but he was sick of green.

“OUCH!”

Born stopped, looked back at his charges. Logan was hopping awkwardly on one foot on the cubble, holding a trailing liana for support. Born let go of the vineroot he was holding and dropped next to her. She sat down, holding her left leg. She seemed more angry than hurt. Cohoma was studying something Logan was concealing with a hand.

“What is it?
^”

She smiled up at him. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on her forehead. “I stepped on something.” She looked around, gestured. “That flower there … went right through my boot.”

Born saw the tiny collection of bright orange thorns sticking up from the middle of the miniature bouquet of six-petaled lavender blooms. His expression changed. A hand reached under his cloak and he brought out the bone blade.

“Hey!” Cohoma started to move between them. Born shoved the bigger man aside. Cohoma stumbled and nearly fell off the cubble.

“Lie down!” Born instructed Logan harshly, putting a hand on her chest and shoving. She went down, hard, then started to sit up slightly, bracing herself with her hands.

“Born what are you doing? It stings a little, but—”

He yanked the boot off and she fell backward again, hitting her head on the wood. Then he raised her leg and held the knife over it.

“Now wait a minute, Born!” Her voice turned panicky. Cohoma had recovered his footing, took a threatening step toward the hunter.

“Just a second, you misplaced pygmy. Explain—”

There was a warning growl just overhead and he looked up. Ruumahum was leaning over the cubble just above him, holding on with four legs, the front paws dangling and claws extended. The furcot smiled, showing more ivory than a concert grand. Cohoma looked into three eyes and clenched his fists, but kept them at his side.

“This will hurt a little,” Born said quickly. He cut into the sole of her foot, directly over the three punctures.

Logan screamed violently, fell back and tried to twist free. Holding her foot tightly, Born put his mouth over the freely bleeding wound, sucked and spat, sucked and spat. When he finished, she was crying softly and trembling. After a cautious glance at Ruumahum, Cohoma moved to comfort her.

Born ignored the giant’s tense questions while searching the surrounding foliage. He found what he needed, a cluster of herbaceous cylinders growing from a nearby limb. Finding an old one, he cut it off at the base. It was half the length of his arm. The knife took the top off, revealing a hollow tube filled with clear liquid. He drained it, sighed, and tried another one. This he offered to the injured woman. Logan finished rubbing at her eyes, stared at him.

“Drink it,” he advised simply, She started to take it and recoiled at the feel of the mushy stem. Then she put her lips hesitantly to the rim and drained half of it, despite Cohoma’s warnings. She passed the remainder to him.

Cohoma studied it warily. “How do we know he’s not trying to poison us?”