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“Why did you do that?”
Prelude to other data. Panille has recognized the trap you set for him and avoided it. Waela failed.
Thomas knew he could not conceal his elation and did not try. But a question remained: “Is Panille Your pawn?”
Are you My pawn?
Thomas felt a tight band across his chest. Nothing worked the way he expected. Presently, he found his voice.
“How did he recognize the trap?”
By being open to his peril.
“What does that mean?”
You are not open, as My Devil should be.
“And You told me You wouldn’t interfere with the roll of the dice!”
I never said I would not interfere; I said there would be no outside interference.
Thomas thought about that while he fought to overcome a deep sense of frustration. It was too much and he spoke his feelings: “You’re in the game: You can do anything You want and You don’t call that . . .”
You, too, can do anything you want.
This froze him. What powers had Ship imparted to him? He did not feel powerful. He felt helpless before Ship’s omnipresence. And this business of Hali Ekel and the Jesus incident! What did it mean?
Once more, Ship intruded: Devil, I tell you that some things take their own course only if you fail to detect that course. Waela really feels a powerful attraction toward young Panille.
Young Panille!
Thomas spoke past an emptiness in his breast: “Why do You torture me?”
You torture yourself.
“So You say!”
When will you awaken? There was no mistaking Ship’s frustrated emphasis.
Thomas found that he did not fear this. He was much too tired and there was no more reason for him to stay here in the sub. Oakes had approved the venture. They would go out on schedule—Waela and Panille with him.
“Ship, I’ll awaken early tomorrow and take out this LTA and its sub.”
Would that this were true.
“You intend to stop me?” Thomas found himself oddly delighted at the prospect of Ship interfering in this particular way.
Stop you? No. The play must run its course apparently.
Was that sadness in Ship’s projection? Thomas could not be certain. He sat back. There was a stabbing ache between his shoulder blades. He closed his eyes, sent his fatigue and frustrations out in thought.
“Ship, I know I can’t hide anything from You. And You know why I’m going out to the sea tomorrow.”
Yes, I know even what you hide from yourself.
“Are You my psychiatrist now?”
Which of us usurps the function of the other? That has always been the question.
Thomas opened his eyes. “I have to do it.”
That is the origin of the illusion men call kismet.
“I’m too tired to play word games.”
Thomas slipped out of the command seat and stood up. He kept one hand on the seat back, spoke as much to himself as to Ship.
“We could all die tomorrow, Waela, Panille and I.”
I must warn you that truisms represent the most boring of all human indulgences.
Thomas felt Ship’s intrusive presence withdraw, but he knew that nothing had been taken away. Wherever he went, whatever he did, Ship was there.
He found his thoughts winging back to that faraway time when he had been trained (conditioned, really) not merely as a Psychiatrist, but as a Chaplain/Psychiatrist.
“Fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.”
Old Matthew knew how to put the fear of God in you!
Thomas found it took him several blinks to overcome a sense of panic so deep that it kept him locked in place.
Early training is the most powerful, he reminded himself.
Chapter 39
Man also knows not his time: as the fishes that are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the snare; so are the sons of men snared in an evil time, when it falls suddenly upon them.
—Christian Book of the Dead, Shiprecords
FOR A long time after returning to Ship from the Hill of Skulls, Hali could not find the will to leave the room. She stared up and around at the softly illuminated space—this secret place where Kerro had spent so many hours communing with Ship. She remembered the borrowed flesh of the old woman, the painful and halting steps. The ache of aging shoulders. A feeling of profound sensitivity to her familiar body pervaded her awareness; each tiny movement became electric with immediacy.
She remembered the man who had been nailed to the rigid crosspiece on the hill. Barbaric!
Yaisuah.
She whispered it: “Yaisuah.”
It was understandable how this name had evolved into that of Jesus . . . and even to the Heysoos of Jesus Lewis.
But nowhere could she find understanding of why she had been taken to witness that agonizing scene. Nowhere. And she found it odd that she had never encountered historical records of that faraway event—not in Ship’s teachings nor in the memories of Shipmen who came from Earth.
In the first moments of her return, she had asked Ship why she had been shown that brutal incident, and had received an enigmatic response.
Because there are things from the human past that no creature should forget.
“But why me? Why now?”
The rest was silence. She assumed that the answers were her own to find.
She stared at the com-console. The seat there at the instruction terminal was her seat now; she knew it. Kerro was gone . . . groundside. Ship had introduced her to this place, had given it to her.
The message was clear: No more Kerro Panille here.
A shuddering wave of loss shot through her, and she shook tears from her eyes. This was no place to stay now. She stood, took up her pribox and slipped out the way she had entered.
Why me?
She wound her way out of softwares and into D passage leading back to Medical, into the workings of Ship’s body.
The beep of her pribox startled her.
“Ekel here,” she said, surprised at the youthfulness of her own voice—not at all like the ancient quavering of that old woman’s voice she had borrowed.
Her pribox crackled, then: “Ekel, report to Dr. Ferry’s office.”
She found a servo and, instead of walking, rode to Medical.
Ferry, she thought. Could it mean reassignment? Could I be joining Kerro groundside?
The thought excited her, but the idea of groundside duty remained fearful. So many nasty rumors. And lately, all groundside assignments seemed permanent. Except for the tight-knit political circle at Medical, no one made the return trip. Pressures of work had kept her from thinking much about this before, but suddenly it became vital.
What are they doi
ng with all our people?
The drain on equipment and food from Ship was a topic for constant anxious conversation; recurrent dayside orders exhorted greater production efforts . . . but few speculated about missing people.
We’ve been conditioned not to face the finality of absolute endings. Is that why Ship showed me Yaisuah?
The thought stood there in her awareness, riding on the hum of the servo carrying her toward Medical and Ferry.
It was clear to her that Yaisuah had ended, but his influence had not ended. Pandora was a place of endings. It gulped food and people and equipment. What influences were about to be sent reverberating from that place?
Endings.
The servo fell silent, stopped. She looked up to see Medical’s servo gate and, across the passage, the hatch to Ferry’s offices. She did not want to go through that hatch. Her body still throbbed with sensitivities ignited by what Ship had shown her. She did not want Ferry touching her body. It was more than her dislike for him—the silly old fool! He drank too much of the alcohol which came up from Colony and he always reached out to put a hand on her somewhere.
Everyone knew the Demarest woman brought him his wine from groundside. He always had plenty of it after her visits.
His food chits can’t support that kind of drinking.
She stared at the dogged hatch across the way. Something was definitely wrong—shipside and groundside. Why did Rachel Demarest bring wine up to Ferry?
If she brings him wine, what does she get in return?
Love? Why not? Even neurotics like Ferry and Demarest needed love. Or . . . if not love, at least an occasional couch partner.
A remembered image of Foul-breath shuddered through her mind. She could almost feel the touch of his hand translated to her own young flesh. Involuntarily, she brushed her arm.
Maybe that’s how they get so foul. No love . . . no lovers.
There was no evading the summons, though. She slid off the servo and crossed to Ferry’s hatch. It snicked open at her approach. Why was she reminded of a sword leaving its scabbard?
“Ahhh, dear Hali.” Ferry opened his palms to her as she entered.
