Finally Tatty had come out again, dressed for her dinner appointment. She had checked her appearance in the full-length mirror on the living-room wall. And it was then that Chan, looking over her shoulder and also seeing his own reflection, became disoriented and faint. For the first time in his life he experienced the most intense form of self-awareness. That tall, blond figure staring back at him with eyes of sapphire blue was him — Chancellor Vercingetorix Dalton, a unique assembly of thought, emotions and memories, housed in a single and familiar frame. There he was. There was his identity.
Chan felt like screaming aloud with revelation. But that was what children did. Instead he left the apartment — quickly, so that the great flood of thoughts would not be lost or diverted by conversation with others. In the corridor he saw the approaching figure of Esro Mondrian. That had set up its own resonance within him, adding to the internal storm.
Chan did not want to speak — to anyone. He hid until Mondrian had passed by and gone to Tatty’s door, and then he watched from the shadows. When the pair left he followed them along the walkway. He had no objective, beyond an unarticulated urge to keep both of them within his sight.
At the restaurant Chan was greeted by a waiter who politely barred his way. Did Chan have a reservation?
Chan shook his head dumbly and retreated. He wandered away along the corridor. His head was throbbing, stabs of pain shooting across his eyes. At each intersection he made a random choice of direction. Up, down, east, west, north, south, on through the convoluted interior paths of Ceres.
At last, quite by accident, he found that he had traveled all the way to the surface chambers. Great transparent viewports opened out on to the jumble of ships, gantries, landing towers, and antennae that covered the outer levels of the giant asteroid. Ceres was the power center of the solar system, and as such it had a surface that bustled with activity twenty-four hours a day.
Beyond that surface stood the quiet stars. Chan settled down to stare at them.
What was he? A month ago, anyone could have answered that question: he was a moron. A misfit, a folly of nature, the brain of an infant in the body of a grown man. Just a few days ago, Chan had asked Kubo Flammarion a question. Before the Stimulator, his brain had not developed. Chan understood that — but why had it not developed? Had the cause been chemical, physiological, psychological, or what?
Flammarion had shook his head. He had no idea; but he would ask the experts.
In a few hours he was back. They did not know the answer, either. Chan had always possessed what appeared to be a perfectly normal brain; and now, after the treatment, Chan had a normal brain — or one that was rather better than normal, according to the latest tests. But as to why — Flammarion’s experts had offered nothing. Why was Einstein, why was Darwin, why was Mozart, all with brains no difference in appearance from yours or mine?
Kubo Flammarion was content with that answer. He did not realize how totally unsatisfying it was to Chan. For if no one could explain the source of his earlier abnormality, what assurance was there that Chan would not regress? And in how many other ways, less easy to measure, might he still be abnormal?
How would he even know he was abnormal? Maybe he was still a total misfit, still a freak of nature — just a rather smarter one.
Without even realizing it, Chan was exploring his own sanity and normality. The process was natural for all maturing humans above a certain intelligence. But Chan did not know that — and he was doing it on an accelerated time scale, struggling to make in weeks the adjustments of outlook that normally take years. He had no time to examine the libraries or talk to older friends, to cull from their millions of pages and ten thousand years of shared human experience the reassurances he needed.
So Chan stared at the stars, pondered, and could find no acceptable answers. He was overwhelmed by uncertainty and sorrow and pain.
The easiest way to avoid that pain was to retreat from it, to hide in mindlessness. He gazed far out, looking beyond the starscape for the edge of the universe. He was exhausted, and after a few more minutes his eyes closed.
Seven hours later he awoke in his own bed. He was still exhausted and empty-headed, and he could not say where he had been or what he had done. His last memory was of Tatty, staring with her in the mirror at the reflection of her evening gown.
Chan did not have the energy or resolve to rise from his bed. He was still there when Tatty came to him. She was wearing the same white dress, stained now with dried blood.
She was not sure, but she had to talk to Chan. He looked at her pellet-riddled arm and listened in horror. He was ready to believe her worst worries and suspicions. It was just as he had feared. He was a monster. Before Tatty even finished talking, Chan had decided what he must do.
Chapter 18
“Who dared to give such an order?” Mondrian’s voice was weak in volume but strong in authority. “Were you insane enough to do it yourself, without thinking of the consequences?”
The technician standing by the bedside recoiled and looked at Tatty for support. She stepped forward.
“I gave the directive,” she said. These people were only following orders.”
Mondrian had been trying to sit up. Now he sank back on the pillow. “You? You have no authority here. Why would people even listen to you?”
“No problem. I gave the orders in writing, and I used the seal of your own office.” Tatty sat down on the edge of the bed. “If you expect me to say I’m sorry, forget it. And if you claim I did the wrong thing, I’ll have you sent back for more scans of your head.”
The medical technician stared at her in horror, then up to the ceiling as though expecting a lightning bolt.
“Don’t fret and fume, Esro,” went on Tatty calmly. “The medical opinions were unanimous. You could have died. Your chances of full recovery went up dramatically if you remained in bed and under full sedation for a week. So that’s what I authorized. The week’s up, and you’re doing well.”
Mondrian shook his head, then gasped at the pain it produced. “A week! My God, Tatty, you make me unconscious for a whole week, and act as though it’s nothing. In a week the whole system could go to hell.”
“It could. But it didn’t. Commander Brachis took care of everything in your absence.”
“Brachis! You think that’s going to make me feel better?” Mondrian made another attempt to sit upright. “He had a free hand to do what he liked with my operations and my staff, and you encouraged it?”
“Correct. He knew you would be worried by that, and he told me to give you a message. He assumes that the arrangement is on that you talked about before the attempt to kill you, and he will try to gain the ear of Ambassador MacDougal as you suggested. His main worry is that you won’t remember anything about the conversation. The doctors warned of amnesia.”
“I remember everything. Too much!” Mondrian put his hand to a forehead still coated with synthetic skin. “How did he escape injury? I know he was shielding you and Godiva.”
“He was injured, too. But his wounds could all be treated with local anesthetics. He refused painkillers, said they’d blur his mind. He must be made of iron.”
“Iron and ice. Or he used to be. Now he’s besotted with Godiva. I don’t know what he’s like any more. How is she?”
“Calm as ever. Didn’t get a scratch. Don’t ask me how — everybody else was peppered with metal fragments.” Tatty adjusted the line of the bandage around Mondrian’s head. “You know the Godiva Bird, she just floats over everything and comes out fine.”