Under Pueblo, Colorado, the President of the United States was interrupted in his after-lunch nap. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, distastefully sipping a cup of black coffee, when the DOD liaison aide came in with a sitrep and the news that a condition red alert had been declared, in accordance with the prepared responses long since programmed into the North American Defense Command Net. He already had the satellite reports and an on-the-scene account from a military mission to Fitzroy Crossing; he knew about the appearance of the submarine The East Is Red, but did not yet know that the air strike had been called off. Summarizing the information, he said to the President, “So it’s go or no-go, sir. NADCOM recommends a launch with abort options in fifty minutes.”

The President snarled, “I don’t feel good. What the hell did they put in that soup?” Dash was not in a mood to think about China just at that moment; he had been dreaming about a private poll which showed his popularity down to 17 percent, including both the “excellent” and “satisfactory” ratings, with 61 percent calling his administration “poor” or “very unsatisfactory.” It had not been a dream. That was what the morning’s political briefing had shown him.

He pushed the coffee cup away and glumly contemplated the decision he, alone in all the world, was now required to make. To launch missiles against the major cities of New People’s Asia was in theory a reversible choice: they could be aborted at any time before reentry, defused, falling harmlessly into the sea. But in practice the NPA posts would detect the launch, and who knew what those crazy Chinese bastards would do? His belly felt as though he were in the last minutes of pregnancy, and there seemed to be a good chance that he would throw up. His number one secretary said chidingly, “Dr. Stassen did advise you not to eat any more cabbage, sir. Perhaps we should instruct the chef not to make that soup any more.”

The President said, “I don’t want lectures right now. All right, look. We’ll hold at the present state of readiness until further orders from me. No launch. No retaliation. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said the DOD man regretfully. “Sir? I have several specific queries, from NADCOM, from the Man Plus project, from the admiral commanding SWEPAC—”

“You heard me! No retaliation. Everything else, keep going.” His number one secretary clarified the point for him. “Our official position,” he said, “is this affair in Australia is a domestic matter and not a national concern for the United States. Our action stance does not change. We keep all systems go, but take no action. Is that right, Mr. President?”

“Right,” said Dash thickly. “Now if you can get along without me for ten minutes, I got to go to the john.”

Brad did think of phoning in to see how the recalibration was going, but he really liked showering with a girl, with all the fun involved in soaping each other, and the Chero-Strip bathroom armorarium included bath oil beads, bubbles and marvelous thick towels. It was three o’clock before he decided to think about going back to work.

By that time it was pretty much too late. Weidner had tried to get permission to postpone testing from the deputy director, who wouldn’t do it on his own authority but bucked it to Washington, who queried the President’s office and received the reply: “No, you cannot, positively cannot, repeat not, postpone this or any other test.” The man giving the reply was the President’s number one secretary, who was looking at the “risk of war” projection on the wall of the President’s most private study while he spoke. Even as he was talking the broad black bar was bending itself still more steeply up toward the red line.

So they went ahead with the test, Weidner tight-lipped and frowning. It went well enough until it began to go very badly indeed. Roger Torraway’s mind was far away until he heard the cyborg call him. He locked in and stood, in skin suit and breathing mask, on the ruddy sands. “What’s the matter, Willy?” he demanded.

The great ruby eyes turned toward him. “I— I can’t ssssee you, Roger!” the cyborg shrilled. “I— I—”

And he toppled and fell. It was as quick as that. Roger did not even move toward him until he felt a great thundering hammer of air beat in on him, sending him stumbling toward the recumbent monster form.

From the 7,500-foot equivalent outside the Mars-normal chamber Don Kayman came desperately running in. He had not waited to lock. He had thrown both doors open. He was no longer a scientist. He was a priest; he dropped to his knees beside the contorted form of what had been Willy Hartnett.

Roger stared while Don Kayman touched the ruby eyes, traced a cross on the synthetic flesh, whispering what Roger could not hear. He did not want to hear. He knew what was happening.

The first candidate for cyborg was now receiving Extreme Unction in front of his eyes.

The lead backup was Yic Freibart, taken off the list by presidential order.

The number two alternate was Carl Mazzini, ruled out because of his broken leg.

The third alternate, and the new champion, was him.

Six

Mortal in Mortal Fear

It is not an easy thing for a flesh-and-blood human being to come to terms with the knowledge that some of his flesh is going to be ripped from him and replaced with steel, copper, silver, plastic, aluminum and glass. We could see that Torraway was not behaving very rationally. He went blundering down the hall away from the Mars-normal tank in great urgency, as though he had a most pressing errand. He had no errand except to get away. The hall seemed like a trap to him. He felt he could not stand to have one person come up to him and say he was sorry about Willy Hartnett, or acknowledge Torraway’s own new status. He passed a men’s room, stopped, looked around — no one was watching him — and entered to stand at the urinal, eyes glazed, fixed to the shiny chrome. When the door pushed open, Torraway made a great show of zipping and flushing, but it was only a boy from the typing poo1 who looked at him incuriously and headed for a booth.

Outside the men’s room the deputy director caught him. “Goddamn lousy thing,” he said. “I guess you know you’re—”

“I know,” said Torraway, pleased that his voice was so calm. “We’re going to have to find out what happened fast. I’m having a meeting in my office in ninety minutes. We’ll have the first autopsy reports. I want you there.”

Roger nodded, glanced at his wrist watch and turned smartly away. The important thing, he thought, was to keep moving as though he were too busy to interrupt. Unfortunately he couldn’t think of a single thing he had to do, or even that he could pretend to be doing, to keep conversation away. No, he recognized, not conversation. It was thought he wanted to keep away, thinking about himself. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t furious at fate. He just wasn’t prepared to look into the personal consequences of Willy Hartnett’s death, not right at that moment—

He looked up; someone had been calling his name.

It was Jon Freeling, Brad’s surgical assistant in perceptual systems, looking for Brad.

“Why, no,” said Torraway, glad to be talking about something other than Willy’s death or his own future, “I don’t know where he is. Went to lunch, I think.”

“Two hours ago. His tail’s going to be in a crack if I can’t find him before the DD’s meeting. I’m not sure I can field all the questions — and I can’t go looking for him, they’re bringing the cyborg into my lab now, and I’ve got to—”

“I’ll find him for you,” Torraway said hastily. “I’ll call him at home.”

“Tried it. No dice. And he didn’t leave a number where he could be reached.”

Torraway winked, suddenly feeling relieved, delighted to have a challenge he could respond to. “You know Brad,” he said. “You have to remember there’s a lot of tomcat in that boy. I’ll find him.” And he took the elevator to the administrative floor turned two corners and rapped on the door marked Administrative Statistics.