Kate Wilhelm in Orbit - Volume One (26 page)

“Martie?” Boyle stopped by him. “Want to talk to you. Half an hour over by the fence. Okay?”

Gregor left the circle finally and went straight to Julia. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly, keeping his gaze on her face. “My dear. Very impressive. So nihilistic. Did you realize how nihilistic it is? But of course. And proud, also. Nihilistic but proud. Strange combination. You feel that man almost makes it, this time. Did you mean that? Only one toe restraining him. Sad. So sad.”

“Or you can imagine that the circle starts with the devastation, the ruins, and the death of man. From that beginning to the final surge of life that lifts him from the origins in the dirt.… Isn’t that what you really meant to say, my dear?” Frances Lefever moved in too close to Julia, overwhelming her with the sweet, sickening scent of marijuana heavy on her breath. “If that’s where the circle begins, then it is a message of nothing but hope. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

Gregor moved back a step, waving his hand in the air. “Of course, one can always search out the most romantic explanation of anything…”

“Romantic? Realistic, my dear Dwight. Yours is the typical male reaction. Look what I’ve done. I’ve destroyed all mankind, right back down to the primordial ooze. Mine says, Look, man is freeing himself, he is leaping from his feet-of-clay beginnings to achieve a higher existence. Did you really look at that one? There’s no shadow, you know.”

Dwight and Frances forgot about Julia. They argued their way back to the circle, and she leaned weakly against the redwood fence and drank deeply.

“Hey. Are you all right, Julia?”

“Dr. Wymann. Yes. Fine. Great.”

“You looked as if you were ready to faint…”

“Only with relief. They like it. They are fascinated by it. It’s enigmatic enough to make them argue about meanings, so they’ll both write up their own versions, different from each other’s, and that will make other people curious enough to want to see for themselves…”

Dr. Wymann laughed and watched the two critics as they moved about the large stones, pointing out to one another bits and pieces each was certain the other had missed.

“Congratulations, Julia.”

“What did you think of it?”

“Oh, no. Not after real critics have expressed opinions.”

“Really. I’d like to know.”

Dr. Wymann looked again at the circle of stones and shrugged. “I’m a clod. An oaf. I had absolutely no art training whatever. I like things like Rodin. Things that are unequivocal. I guess I didn’t know what you were up to with your work.”

Julia nodded. “Fair enough.”

“I’m revealed as an ass.”

“Not at all, Dr. Wymann. I like Rodin too.”

“One thing. I couldn’t help overhearing what they were saying. Are you the optimist that the woman believes, or the pessimist that Gregor assumes?”

Julia finished off her champagne, looking at the goblet instead of the doctor. She sighed when it was all gone. “I do love champagne.” She smiled at him then. “The stones will give you the answer. But you’ll have to find it yourself. I won’t tell.”

He laughed and they moved apart. Julia drifted back inside the house to check the buffet and the bar. She spoke briefly with Margie Mellon, who was taking care of the food and drinks. Everything was holding up well. A good party. Successful unveiling. A flashbulb went off outside, then another and another.

“Honey! It’s really great, isn’t it? They love it! And you! And me because I’m married to you!”

She never had seen Martie so pleased. He held her close for a minute, then kissed each eyelid. “Honey, I’m so proud of you I can’t stand it. I want to strip you and take you to bed right now. That’s how it’s affected me.”

“Me too. I know.”

“Let’s drive them all off early.…”

“We’ll try anyway.”

She was called to pose by the circle, and she left him. Martie watched her. “She is so talented,” a woman said, close to his ear. He turned. He didn’t know her.

“I’m Esther Wymann,” she said huskily. She was very drunk. “I almost envy her. Even if it is for a short time. To know that you have that much talent, a genius, creative genius. I think it would be worth having, even if you knew that tomorrow you’d be gone. To have that for a short time. So creative and so pretty too.”

She drained a glass that smelled like straight Scotch. She ran the tip of her tongue around the rim and turned vaguely toward the bar. You too, sweetie? No drink? Where’s our host? Why hasn’t he taken care of you? That’s all right. Esther will. Come on.”

She tilted when she moved and he steadied her. “Thanks. Who’re you, by the way?”

“I’m the host,” he said coldly. “What did you mean by saying she has so little time? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Esther staggered back from his hand. “Nothing. Didn’t mean anything.” She lurched away from him and almost ran the three steps that took her into a group of laughing guests. Martie saw Wymann put an arm about her to help hold her upright. She said something to him and the doctor looked up quickly to see Martie watching them. He turned around, still holding his wife, and they moved toward the door to the dining room. Martie started after them, but Boyle appeared at the doorway and motioned for him to go outside.

The doctor would keep, Martie decided. He couldn’t talk to him with that drunken woman on his arm anyway. He looked once more toward the dining-room doorway, then followed Boyle outside.

A picture or two, someone said. He stood by Julia, holding her hand, and the flashbulbs exploded. Someone opened a new bottle of champagne close by, and that exploded. Someone else began shrieking with laughter. He moved away from the center of the party again and sat down at a small table, waiting for Boyle to join him.

“This is as safe as any place we’re likely to find,” Boyle said. He was drinking beer, carrying a quart bottle with him. “What have you dug out?”

The waterfall splashed noisily behind them, and the party played noisily before them. Martie watched the party. He said, “The death rate, extrapolated only, you understand. Nothing’s available on paper anywhere. But the figures we’ve come up with are: from one million eight hundred thousand five years ago, up to fourteen and a quarter million this year.” Boyle choked and covered his face with his handkerchief. He poured more beer and took a long swallow. Martie waited until he finished, then said, “Birth rate down from three and a half million to one million two hundred thousand. That’s live births. At these rates, with the figures we could find, we come up with a loss per thousand of sixty-three. A death rate of sixty-three per thousand.”

Boyle glared at him. He turned to watch the party again, saying nothing.

Martie watched Julia talking with guests. She never had looked more beautiful. Pregnancy had softened her thin face, had added a glow. What had that bitch meant by saying she had so little time? He could hear Julia’s words inside his head:
You’ll have to turn it over sooner or later
. She didn’t understand. Boyle didn’t understand. Men like Whaite wouldn’t have repudiated a theory so thoroughly if there had been any merit whatsoever in it. It was myth only that said the science community was a real community. There were rivalries, but no corruption of that sort. The whole scientific world wouldn’t unite behind a lie. He rubbed his eyes. But how many of the scientists knew enough about biochemistry to form independent judgments? They had to take the word of the men who were considered authorities, and if they, fewer than a dozen, passed judgment, then that judgment was what the rest of the community accepted as final. Only the amateurs on the outside would question them, no one on the inside would think of doing so. Martie tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. Fringe thinking. Nut thinking. They’d take away his badge and his white coat if he expressed such thoughts. But, damn it, they could! Six or eight, ten men could suppress a theory, for whatever reason they decided was valid, if only they all agreed. Over fourteen million deaths in the States in the past year. How many in the whole world? One hundred million, two hundred million? They’d probably never know.

“Hilary, I’m going up to Cambridge tomorrow, the next day, soon. I have to talk to Smithers’ widow.”

Hilary nodded. “At that death rate, how long to weed us out? Assuming Smithers was right, that forty percent can be treated.”

“About twelve and a half years, starting two years ago.” Martie spoke without stopping to consider his figures. He wasn’t sure when he had done that figuring. He hadn’t consciously thought of it.

He watched as Julia spoke with Dr. Wymann, holding his hand several seconds. She nodded, and the doctor turned and walked away. What had Wymann’s wife meant? Why had she said what she had? If “they” existed, she was one of them. As Wymann was. As Senator Kern was. Who else?

“I don’t believe it!”

“I know.”

“They couldn’t keep such figures quiet! What about France? England? Russia?”

“Nothing. No statistics for the last four years. Files burned, mislaid, not properly completed. Nothing.”

“Christ!” Boyle said.

Julia smoked too much, and paced until the phone rang. She snatched it up. “Martie! Are you all right?”

“Sure. What’s wrong, honey?” His voice sounded ragged, he was out of breath.

“Darling, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to alarm you, but I didn’t know how else to reach you. Don’t say anything now. Just come home, Martie, straight home. Will you?”

“But… Okay, honey. My flight is in fifteen minutes. I’ll be home in a couple of hours. Sit tight. Are you all right?”

“Yes. Fine. I’m fine.” She listened to the click at the other end of the line, and felt very alone again. She picked up the brief note that she had written and looked at it again. “Lester B. Hayes Memorial Hospital, ask for Dr. Conant.”

“It’s one on my list,” she said to Martie when he read it. “Hilary collapsed at his desk and they took him there. Martie, they’ll kill him, won’t they?”

Martie crumpled the note and let it drop. He realized that Julia was trembling and he held her for several minutes without speaking. “I have to make some calls, honey. Will you be all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine now. Martie, you won’t go, will you? You won’t go to that hospital?”

“
Sh
. It’s going to be all right, Julia. Sit down, honey. Try to relax.”

Boyle’s secretary knew only that she had found him sprawled across his desk and in the next few minutes, Kolchak, or someone, had called the ambulance and he was taken away to the hospital. The report they had was that he was not in serious condition. It had happened before, no one was unduly alarmed, but it was awkward. It never had happened before a show. This time… Her voice drifted away. Martie slammed the receiver down.

“It really has happened before. The hospital could be a coincidence.”

Julia shook her head. “I don’t believe it.” She looked at her hands. “How old is he?”

“Fifty, fifty-five. I don’t know. Why?”

“He’s too old for the treatment, then. They’ll kill him. He’ll die of complications from flu, or a sudden heart attack. They’ll say he suffered a heart attack at his desk.…”

“Maybe he did have a heart attack. He’s been driving himself… Overweight, living too fast, too hard, too many women and too much booze…”

“What about Smithers? Did you see Mrs. Smithers?”

“Yes. I saw her. I was with her all morning…”

“And within an hour of your arrival there, Hilary collapses. You’re getting too close, Martie. You’re making them act now. Did you learn anything about Smithers, or his work?”

“It’s a familiar kind of thing. He published prematurely, got clobbered, then tried to publish for over a year and had paper after paper returned. During that time he saw everything he’d done brought down around his ears. His wife believes he committed suicide, although she won’t admit it even to herself. But it’s there, in the way she talks about them, the ones who she says hounded him…”

“And his papers?”

“Gone. Everything was gone when she was able to try to straighten things out. There wasn’t anything left to straighten out. She thinks he destroyed them. I don’t know. Maybe he did. Maybe they were stolen. It’s too late now.”

The phone shrilled, startling both of them. Martie answered. “Yes, speaking.…” He looked at Julia, then turned his back. His hand whitened on the phone. “I see. Of course. An hour, maybe less.”

Julia was very pale when Martie hung up and turned toward her. “I heard,” she said. “The hospital… it’s one of theirs. Dr. Conant must be one of them.”

Martie sat down and said dully, “Hilary’s on the critical list. I didn’t think they’d touch him. I didn’t believe it. Not him.”

“You won’t go, will you? You know it’s a trap.”

“Yes, but for what? They can get to me any time they want. They don’t have to do it this way. There’s no place to hide.”

“I don’t know for what. Please don’t go.”

“You know what this is? The battle of the Cro-Magnon and the Neanderthal all over again. One has to eliminate the other. We can’t both exist in the same ecological niche.”

“Why can’t they just go on living as long as they want and leave us alone? Time is on their side.”

“They know they can’t hide it much longer. In ten years it would be obvious, and they’re outnumbered. They’re fighting for survival, too. Hitting back first, that’s all. A good strategy.”

He stood up. Julia caught his arm and tried to pull him to her. Martie was rigid and remote. “If you go, they’ll win. I know it. You’re the only one now who knows anything about what is going on. Don’t you see? You’re more valuable than Boyle was. All he had was his own intuition and what you gave him. He didn’t understand most of it even. But you… They must have a scheme that will eliminate you, or force you to help them. Something.”

Martie kissed her. “I have to. If they just want to get rid of me, they wouldn’t be this open. They want something else. Remember, I have a lot to come back for. You, the baby. I have a lot to hate them for, too. I’ll be back.”

Julia swayed and held on to the chair until he turned and left the house. She sat down slowly, staring straight ahead.

Martie looked at Dr. Wymann without surprise. “Hilary’s dead?”