"I'm sorry, ma'am," I protested. "I understand what you're saying—but I should have done better—I mean, if only—"

  "Stop!" She glared down the table at me. "Jackson, is that thing off?" He checked and nodded. "Thank you," she said. "You're not getting it. So let me give it to you another way. Listen, McCarthy, the responsibility for putting that weapon in your hands was mine—do you get that?"

  I nodded.

  "So if there was an error there, it's my error too. Do you get that?"

  I nodded again.

  "And I don't make errors. Not of this kind. You were handed that weapon because you were judged to be capable of handling the responsibility. Shorty thought so. Duke thought so. I thought so. Are you telling us now that all three of us were wrong?"

  "Uh—no, but—"

  "No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Either we were wrong or we were right. This thought you have that you screwed up is nothing more than an attempt to avoid the responsibility and pass the error back up the line to the people who authorized the weapon for you. I'm sorry, but we're not accepting delivery. You took the job. You knew what was involved. You accepted the responsibility. So I don't care how you think you handled it. You handled it appropriately." She glared at me with eyes like fire. "Can you get that?"

  "Y-yes, ma'am." I shoved my fists into my lap and stared at them. She didn't want to hear me.

  Dr. Obama stopped and cleared her throat, coughing into her clenched fist. She took a drink of water, then looked up again without focusing on anyone in particular. She nodded to Ted. He switched the transcriber back on. "Does anyone else have anything to add?" She waited without expression. "Then I take it that all of you here are convinced that Shorty Harris's death was unavoidable. Is there anyone who disagrees? Is there anyone who disputes the validity of McCarthy's response? No one?" She looked at Duke. Duke did not meet her gaze. He seemed troubled and for a moment I thought he was going to speak; then, instead, he just shook his head.

  Dr. Obama waited a moment longer, then exhaled softly. She seemed relieved. "All right, let the record show that this hearing has determined that James McCarthy acted with dispatch and fortitude. Those present at the scene confirm that McCarthy's actions were appropriate and above reproach. Furthermore, it is the opinion of this body that McCarthy's professed clumsiness is an expression only of his feeling of grief. We acknowledge inexperience in combat situations, but we do not feel that played a significant part here. The circumstances as represented do not demonstrate any negligence on his part, only his willingness to accept the responsibilities given him."

  She looked around the table. Duke nodded his reluctant approval. Everyone else seemed . . . deliberately nonchalant.

  "All right, before we adjourn is there anyone who has any information which would cast any light on any of these questions we've brought up?" She waited only a second. "I thought not. It is hereby determined that this board of inquiry is unable to reach a conclusion about the circumstances of yesterday's operation, and for all the usual reasons: we simply do not have the knowledge of the Chtorran species that we need. It is the sense of this session and the conclusion of this panel that we have only the questions and none of the answers. We therefore make no recommendations of any kind. This meeting is adjourned. Clean it up, Jackson, and let me see a printout. Don't put anything on the network. We'll hard-mail this one." She stood up, gathered her notepad, and nodded. "Good day, gentlemen."

  13

  "—a low threshold of bullshit."

  "Every question defines its own answer—except perhaps, 'Why a duck?' "

  —SOLOMON SHORT

  Duke and I were left alone in the room.

  He looked haggard and very old. He was leaning on his elbows and staring into yesterday. His bony hands were clenched, two knotted fists pressed hard together, pressed against his jaw.

  "Uh, Duke . . ."

  He looked up, startled. When he saw it was me, his face tightened. "What is it?"

  "Um—I have some specimens."

  Duke blinked. For a moment, he wasn't there; then he remembered. "Right. You'll find a set of handling cases in the storeroom. Do you know where it is? It's bungalow six. We'll send them out on Thursday. Try and keep those eggs and millipedes alive."

  "I think the bigger problem would be killing them—" I saw that he had disappeared inside himself again. He had dismissed me. "Uh—Duke?"

  He came back impatiently. His eyes were red. "Yeah?"

  "Uh, did Ted talk to you yet?"

  "No, he hasn't. About what?"

  "He said he was going to. We thought that maybe—I mean, I am supposed to be an exo-biologist—"

  Duke held up one hand. "Spare me the story. What do you want?"

  "A lab," I said quickly. "So I can do some of my own observations on the millipedes and eggs and that purple stuff from around the dome."

  He looked annoyed. "I don't want you damaging those specimens before they get to Denver! I've got enough problems—"

  "I'm not gonna 'damage' anything!"

  Duke snorted.

  I said, "Duke, if you're pissed at me, then say so."

  "I am not pissed at you—"

  "I don't believe you." I walked around and sat down in Dr. Obama's chair and faced him. "What's going on here, Duke? This was the stupidest inquest I've ever been to—" He looked up at that, a question in his eyes. "Three," I answered before he could ask, "—not counting this one. Nothing was established here. Nothing at all. I grant that there aren't a lot of answers yet to most of our questions—but the questions that could have been answered weren't. They were whitewashed. So excuse me for being suspicious, but what was all this about?"

  Duke shook his head. He stared at his hands. "You don't want to know."

  "Yes, I do!"

  Duke let that sink in. Then he said quietly, "You were only doing what Shorty told you to do. You were following orders."

  I sniffed. I quoted from somewhere, " 'I was only following orders is not an excuse—it's an indictment.' "

  "Who said that?"

  "I just did."

  Duke's expression was scornful. "Don't give me slogans, son. You sound like one of those stupid Solomon Short quotations in the newspaper. Spare me. I've got a low threshold of bullshit. Especially today."

  "I heard it in Global Ethics. And it's no slogan. It's true for me. Look—there's something I want you to know."

  "I don't really want to hear it," he said. "In fact, I don't want to talk at all right now."

  "Neither do I," I said. I could feel my voice starting to quaver. "But I have to! Until someone just listens to me!" My throat was tightening and I was terrified I was going to start crying. It was all bubbling up. I didn't even know what it was. I said, "I'm the guy who pulled the trigger, Duke. I'm the guy responsible. You and Dr. Obama can say whatever you want in an inquest, but I'm still the guy who did the job."

  He looked like he was going to say something else, but he stopped himself. "All right, say what you have to then, and get it over with." His voice was very quiet.

  "I didn't sleep last night. I couldn't. I needed someone to talk to. I wanted to talk to you. I even got up once and went looking for you. I got as far as your door. I almost knocked. And I didn't—I don't know why. Yes, I do—I was scared. See, I didn't know if I did wrong yesterday or not. I wanted some . . . help. But all I could hear was Shorty's voice saying, 'Figure it out yourself.' Like he did with the manuals. So I didn't knock. And besides, I saw the light was on under your door. And I thought I heard voices. And I didn't want to interrupt anything—"

  Duke started to say something, but I cut him off. "No, I want to finish this. Then you can talk. I didn't go right back to my room. You know the hill behind the camp? I went up there and sat by myself for a while. And—I let myself cry. At first I thought I was crying for Shorty, only after a while, I found out I wasn't. I was crying for myself, because of what I was realizing. And it has nothing at all to do with Shorty being dead."

  I realized I was trembling. My hands were trembling on the table. I thrust them between my legs and held them there with my knees pressed together. I felt very small and very cold. I looked at Duke and said, "What I realized was that—even if Shorty hadn't told me to do what I did—I still would have done it, done the same thing."

  Duke was genuinely surprised. "You would?"

  I swallowed hard. It wasn't easy to speak. "Duke, it was the only thing to do. That's why I've been so . . . crazy. I'd been trying real hard to convince myself that I did it because Shorty told me to—only I knew I hadn't. There wasn't time to think about it—it just happened. I didn't remember what to do or what I'd been told. I just did it—without thinking." I was looking down into my lap now. "Duke, I've never killed anyone before. I never thought I'd ever have to. All I knew was that it was something I never wanted to do—and then, yesterday afternoon, I found out that I could do it—and do it easily. And I've been going crazy ever since trying to explain it to myself. I keep looking for a way to make it all right. I keep saying that it was the circumstances, except that I know it wasn't the circumstances at all. It was me! And now—after this inquest—I can't even have it be a mistake! It was me. I did it. Nobody else. And I have to live with that now—that I can kill people." I added, "It's not really something that I want to know."

  Duke was silent a moment, just studying me. I studied back. His face was craggy and weathered, his skin was leathery and sun-darkened; but his eyes were sharp and alive again and boring straight back into mine.

  Abruptly, he said, "All right, you've got your lab."

  "Uh—thank you!"

  "Yeah, I'll see how you feel in a week. Where did you want to set up this zoo?"

  "The new bath house."

  Duke looked at me sharply. "Why?"

  "It's obvious. It's the only building in camp that's suitable. It's got concrete walls and very high small windows. Nothing could escape. At least, not easily. Nobody's using it because the plumbing was never completed; we could bring in portable heaters and fix up the interior any way we need."

  Duke nodded. "That's exactly where I would have chosen. But I would have chosen it for you because it's a good safe distance from the rest of the camp. You'll have to clear out the stuff that's already in there. Tell Larry what you'll need in the way of special equipment, or if you need anything built. He'll find some men to help you."

  "Yes, sir—and thank you."

  He lifted his hand the barest distance from the table, a wait-a-minute gesture. "Jim?"

  "Sir?"

  "This is no party. Make your results count. Those specimens were awfully expensive." When he looked at me, his eyes were shinier than I'd ever seen. He looked haunted.

  "I know," I said. It was suddenly very hard to speak. "I—I'll try."

  I left quickly.

  14

  Discoveries

  "You can't fight the law of conservation of energy. You can bargain with it, but you can't fight it."

  —SOLOMON SHORT

  An hour after I started cleaning out the bathhouse, Ted showed up with a sour look on his face. I told him what I wanted to do and he pitched in, but without his usual repartee of puns, wisecracks and pontifical observations. Usually, Ted radiated a sense of self-importance, as if he were coming straight from some very important meeting. He always seemed to know what everyone else was involved in. But this morning he seemed chastened, as if he'd been caught with his ear to the keyhole.

  After a while, Larry and Carlos and Hank joined us and the work moved a lot faster. They didn't speak much either. There was a Shorty-shaped hole in all our lives now and it hurt too much to talk about it.

  There was a lot of work to be done. It took us half the afternoon just to clear out the lumber and other supplies that had been stored in the concrete-brick bunker, and the rest of the day to make the place millipede-proof. There were vents to be covered with mesh and windows to be sealed, and we had to install doors too; the latter had to be wrapped with wire mesh, and we had to mount metal plates on the bottoms too, just in case.

  The final touch was provided by Ted, a brightly painted sign which stated in no uncertain terms:

  THE BENEDICT ARNOLD HOME

  FOR WAYWARD WORMS

  TRESPASSERS WILL BE EATEN!!

  No bugs, lice, snakes, snails, toads, spiders, rats, roaches, lizards, trolls, orcs, ghouls, politicians, lifers, lawyers, New Christians, Revelationists, or other unsavory forms of life allowed. If you have to ask, this means you!

  Visitors allowed only at feeding time.

  Please count your fingers when leaving.

  —Ted Jackson,

  Jim McCarthy,

  Proprietors.

  The interior of the bath house was divided into two rooms. One had been intended as a shower room; the other would have been for changing clothes and drying off, a locker room without lockers. We decided to use the locker room for the millipedes and the shower room for the eggs—if we had to choose one or the other to put in a tile-lined room behind two solid doors, it had to be the eggs because of the potential danger they represented. An escaped millipede would be far less serious than an escaped Chtorran.

  We installed two large work tables in each room, connected the electric lighting and heaters, built a special incubator for the eggs and a large metal and glass cage for the millipedes. Sergeant Kelly was happy—she had her mess hall back—and so were we; we had a lab.

  By suppertime, we were seeing our first results. We determined that the millipedes were omnivorous to a degree that made all other omnivores look like fussy eaters. Primarily, they preferred roots, tubers, shoots, stems, flowers, grasses, leaves, bark, branches, blossoms, fruit, grain, nuts, berries, lichens, moss, ferns, fungi and assorted algae; they also liked insects, frogs, mice, bugs, lice, snakes, snails, toads, spiders, rats, roaches, lizards, squirrels, birds, rabbits, chickens and any other form of meat we put before them. If none of the above were available, they'd eat whatever was handy. That included raw sugar, peanut butter, old newsprint, leather shoes, rubber soles, wooden pencils, canned sardines, cardboard cartons, old socks, cellulose-based film and anything else even remotely organic in origin. They even ate the waste products of other organisms. They did not eat their own droppings, a viscous, oily-looking goo; that was one of the few exceptions.

  After three days of this, Ted was beginning to look a little dazed. "I'm beginning to wonder if there's anything they won't eat." He was holding one end of a cassette tape and watching the other end disappear down a millipede maw.

  I said, "Their stomachs must be the chemical equivalent of a blast furnace; there doesn't seem to be anything they can't break down."

  "All those teeth in the front end must have something to do with it," Ted pointed out.

  "Sure," I agreed. "They cut the food into usable pieces, particles small enough to be dissolved—but in order to make use of that food, the stomach has to produce enzymes to break the complex molecules down into smaller, digestible ones. I'd like to know what kind of enzymes can handle such things as fingernail clippings, toothbrush bristles, canvas knapsacks and old video disks. And I'd like to know what kind of stomach can produce such acids regularly without destroying itself in the process."

  Ted looked at me, one eyebrow raised. "Are you going to dissect one and find out?"

  I shook my head. "I tried it. They're almost impossible to kill. Chloroform hardly slows them down. All I wanted to do was put one to sleep for a while so I could examine it more closely and take some skin samples and scrapings—no such luck. He ate the cotton pad with the chloroform on it."

  Ted leaned forward; he put his elbows on the table and his face into his hands. He peered into the millipede cage with a bored, almost weary expression. He was even too tired to joke. The best he could manage was sarcasm. He said, "I dunno. Maybe they're all hypoglycemic . . ."

  I turned to look at him. "That's not bad . . ."

  "What is?"

  "What you just said. About the blood sugar. Maybe something keeps their blood sugar permanently low, so they're constantly hungry. We may make a scientist out of you yet."

  He didn't look up; he just grunted, "Don't be insulting."

  I didn't bother to respond. I was still considering his offhand suggestion. "Two questions. How? And why? What's the purpose? What's the survival advantage?"

  "Um," he said, guessing. "It's fuel. For growth?"

  "Yeah . . . and then that raises another question. How old are these things? And how big are they going to get? And does their appetite keep pace? And what is their full size? Or is this it?" I sat down on the edge of one of the tables, facing the glass wall of the millipede cage. I began chewing on the end of my pencil. "Too many questions—" Hanging around the millipedes was affecting my eating habits. I folded my arms across my chest. "And what if we're not asking the right questions in the first place? I mean, what if it's something so simple and obvious that we're overlooking it?"

  "Hm," said Ted; then, "Maybe they're not getting the right kind of food—and that's why they stay so hungry . . ."

  "Hey!"

  Ted looked up. "What?"

  I pounced on the thought. "Try this: maybe they're dextro—and we're levo—they're made out of right-handed DNA! And they need right-handed proteins to survive! And this is a left-handed world!"

  "Um," said Ted. He scratched his nose and thought about it. "Yes and no. Maybe. I have trouble with the right- and left-handed idea. I don't think it's possible. It's certainly improbable."

  "The worms themselves are improbable," I pointed out.

  He scratched his nose again. "I think the fact that they can safely eat any Earth-based organic matter without immediately falling down, frothing at the mouth in deadly convulsions, is a pretty good sign that our respective biologies are uncomfortably close. If I didn't know better, I'd say almost related."

 

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