"I don't know about that." Foreman spread his hands wide in a gesture of innocence. "That's not what I want to talk about anyway. Do you mind if I record this?" He held up his unit. I shook my head and he switched it on. "Did you see any of the playbacks of the conference sessions?"

  "Only a little. I heard some of it while I was driving back here this evening."

  "What did you hear?"

  "A lot of uproar. About how to deal with the worms. Apparently there's a faction that wants to try to establish peaceful contact."

  "Do you believe that's possible?"

  "I don't know."

  "That's a very honest answer," Foreman said. There was approval in his voice; I guess he liked ignorance. "Do you think we should try?"

  I thought about it. "It'd be pretty dangerous—" I shrugged. "And I don't know if it would work. I mean, I don't know how—" I stopped myself. "Never mind."

  He studied me through narrowed eyes. "What is it you're not telling me, son?"

  I hesitated. "Well, I—" I remembered Duke's and Dr. Obama's reactions.

  "Go on," Foreman prompted.

  "I—went down into a nest," I said quickly. "I saw four worms all coiled together. I touched them. Actually . . . I hugged them. They were . . . singing. Sort of. And I—I was trying to feel their song. I don't know if this makes sense to you, but I wanted to touch them with my whole body and feel them with all my soul. I thought that—if I could taste their spirit, it might be a way to start understanding them." Foreman was staring at me strangly. Not like Duke had stared at me, though; Foreman's stare was even stranger. Had I been drifting away again? I admitted very candidly, "It got me in a lot of trouble."

  Foreman nodded. "But did you start to understand them?"

  "I don't know if I did or not. It was a very . . . weird experience. I could see how the worms might have a very powerful effect on some people, but see—I don't know that what happened in that nest means anything. I've seen a lot more evidence that the worms are malevolent. As much as I hate to say it, I think that's the evidence that speaks the loudest."

  Foreman didn't look pleased with that. "So, you think it's a waste of time to try?"

  "Sir? You don't know much about the Chtorrans, do you?"

  "That's not germane. I'm asking your opinion."

  I shrugged. "I never saw a Chtorran who wanted to stop and chat first. We never had any choice but to kill them."

  "How many Chtorrans have you seen?"

  "Live or pictures?"

  "Total."

  "Um, well—I've seen the Show Low photographs—"

  Foreman nodded knowingly. "Go on."

  "—and I've seen the nest I mentioned this morning. The one with the fourth Chtorran. The one I burned. And then the other nest, the one I went down into. That one had four worms in it too."

  He waited expectantly. "Is that all?"

  "Um—no, there was one more. The one here at the Science Center."

  His eyes narrowed. "Tell me about that," he said slowly.

  I shook my head. "It was just . . . there."

  He looked into my eyes and said, "I know about those sessions, son. Is that what you saw, one of them?"

  I nodded. "There were some dogs. They fed them to the Chtorran. Live. Do you know about that?"

  Foreman said, "They say that Chtorrans won't eat dead meat—they have to eat their prey live."

  "That's true. At least, as far as I know it is."

  "Mm-hm. And those are all the Chtorrans you've seen?"

  "Yes."

  "So, do you think you're an expert on Chtorrans?"

  "No, of course not—"

  Foreman stopped me. "The fact is, son, you are."

  "Huh?"

  He nodded. "You are a Chtorran expert. Whether it was your intention or not, in the past four weeks you've expanded our knowledge of the Chtorran gastropedes incredibly."

  "If I'm an expert, we're in pretty bad shape."

  Agreed—but in the meantime, you'd better acknowledge some facts. You've had more experience with the worms than most other scientists—at least those who've lived to tell about it. You've survived. That could be an accident—or, maybe you've realized something about them."

  I scratched my head. Maybe I had learned something about the worms, but I couldn't think what.

  "Now, let me ask you again. Do you think there's a way to establish any kind of contact or conversation with the Chtorrans?"

  "If you could forget about their eating habits—well, they're kind of like elephants. Big and cuddly. You want to hug them. But I don't know that it's possible to put aside our prejudices about their appetites." I stopped. I stared at the floor. I took a deep breath. 'Some of those assholes this afternoon were talking about making friends with Chtorrans. I wish it were possible, I really do—because in their own terrible way, they are beautiful creatures. But it isn't. It's no more possible for a human to be friends with a worm than it is for a steak to be friends with a dog—except from the inside." I shrugged. "So—we do what we have to do."

  "Couldn't it be that your experience with Chtorrans is limited and that's colored your perceptions of them . . .?"

  "You mean, maybe there are peaceful ones, but I don't know about it?"

  He nodded.

  I weighed the possibility. "Well, yeah—maybe there are peaceful ones. I've never heard of any. And I don't think anybody else has either—or else we'd have heard about it by now. Somebody would have said something this afternoon. Somebody would know about it, wouldn't they?"

  Foreman didn't answer.

  "What's this all about, anyway?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "Just for information. Raw material. You know. The truth can only be seen when looked at from many points of view at once. I'm just curious which part of the elephant you're groping."

  I shook my head. "You're not asking for information. You're digging for something specific."

  "You're too suspicious. I'm a civilian, son. Can we go on?"

  "There's more?"

  "Just a little. This afternoon, you stood up in front of a crowd of people and said you had to burn a man because he was being attacked by a worm."

  "Yes, I did." Part of me was insisting that I put up a defensive barrier against this man's probing, but another part was insisting on telling the truth, no matter who heard it. The only way we would defeat the Chtorrans would be by telling the truth. I added, "It was the kindest thing I could do."

  "Kindest—?" He raised an eyebrow at me. "How do you know that?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  His expression had turned hard. "Have you ever been on the receiving end of a flame-thrower?"

  "No, I haven't."

  "Then where do you get your information?"

  "That's what I was told by Shorty."

  "Who's Shorty?"

  "The man I had to burn. Sir." I said that last deliberately.

  Foreman was silent for a moment at that, turning the information over to see if it was mined. Finally he said, "I'm told—by someone who knows—that death by fire has to be the most horrible thing imaginable. When you're hit by napalm, you can feel your flesh turning into flame."

  "Sir," I said stiffly, "with all due respect, when a wave of fire from a flame-thrower hits you, there isn't time to feel either the heat or the pain. It's a sudden descent into unconsciousness."

  Foreman looked skeptical.

  "I was there, sir. I saw how quickly it happened. There wasn't any time for pain."

  He studied that thought for a long moment. "How about guilt?" he asked finally. "Was there time for that?"

  "Huh?"

  "Do you feel guilty about what you did?"

  "Guilt? I did what I had to do! What I was told to do! I never questioned it! Hell, yes, I feel guilty! And ashamed and shitty and a thousand other things that don't have names!" Something popped for me. "What's this all about anyway? Are you judging me too? Listen, I have enough trouble living up to my own standards—don't ask me to live up to yours! I'm sure your answers are better than mine—after all, your integrity is still unsullied by the brutal facts of practicality! You've been sitting around eating strawberries and lox! I'm the guy who had to pull the trigger! If there is a better answer, don't you think I want to know? Don't you think I have the first right to know? Come up to the hills and show me! I'd be glad to find you're right. But if you don't mind, I'll keep my torch all charged and ready—just in case you're wrong!"

  He waited patiently until I ran down. And even then, he didn't answer immediately. He got up, went to the kitchen and got a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He took a glass, filled it with ice and came back into the living room, slowly pouring the water over the cubes. He eased himself back down into his chair, took a drink and studied me over the glass. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and calm. "Are you through?"

  "Yeah. For now."

  "Good. I want to ask you some questions now. I want you to consider a couple of things. All right?"

  I nodded. I folded my arms across my chest.

  "Thank you. Now, tell me this. What difference does it make? Maybe it's a kindness to burn a man, maybe it isn't. Maybe he doesn't feel a thing—and maybe it's the purest form of pain, a moment of exquisite hell. What difference does it make, Jim, if a man dies crushed in the mouth of a Chtorran or burned by napalm? He's still dead. Where does it make a difference?"

  "You want me to answer?"

  Foreman said, "Go ahead. Take a crack at it."

  I said, "It doesn't make a difference—not the way you ask it."

  "Wrong," he said. "It does. It makes a lot of difference to the person who has to pull the trigger."

  I looked at that. "I'm sorry. I don't see how."

  "Good. So look at it this way. What's more important? Killing Chtorrans or saving lives?"

  "I don't know."

  "So? Who do I have to ask to find out?"

  Whitlaw used to ask the same question. If I didn't know what I thought, who did? I said, "Saving lives."

  "Good. So what do we have to do to save lives?"

  I grinned. "Kill Chtorrans."

  "Good. So what happens if a human being gets in the way? No, let me rephrase that. What would have happened if you had tried to save—what was his name, Shorty?"

  "We'd have both bought the farm."

  Foreman nodded. "Good. So what's more important? Killing Chtorrans or saving lives?"

  "In this case, killing Chtorrans."

  "Uh-huh. So does it matter what justification you use?"

  I stared at him. I couldn't hide from what he was saying.

  "Does it matter whether you believe that a man dies painlessly under the flame or not?"

  "When you put it that way—no, I guess not."

  He nodded. "So how do you feel about it now?"

  I shook my head. "I don't know." I felt torn up inside. I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again.

  He gave me another raised eyebrow.

  "I don't know," I repeated.

  "All right," he said. "Let me ask it this way. Would you do it again?"

  "Yes." I said it without hesitation.

  "You're sure of that?"

  "Yes."

  "Thank you. And how would you feel about it?"

  I met his gaze unashamedly. "Shitty. About like I feel now. But I'd still do it. It doesn't matter what the policy is." I added, "The important thing is killing Chtorrans."

  "You're really adamant about that, aren't you?"

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  He took a long breath, then switched off his recorder. "Okay, I'm through."

  "Did I pass?"

  "Say again?"

  "Your test—this was no interview. This was an attitude check. Did I pass?"

  He looked up from his recorder, straight into my eyes. "If it were an attitude check, what you just asked would probably have flunked you."

  "Yeah, well." My arms were still folded across my chest. "If my attitude leaves something to be desired, so does the way I've been treated. So we're even."

  He stood up and I stood with him. "Answer me something. Are there peaceful Chtorrans?"

  He looked at me blankly. "I don't know. What do you think?"

  I didn't answer, just followed him to the door. He slid his card into the lock-slot and the door slid open for him. I started to follow him out, but there were two armed guards waiting in the hall.

  "Sorry," said Foreman. For the first time, he looked embarrassed.

  "Yeah," I said, and stepped back. The door slid shut in front of me.

  38

  Trajectories

  "Self-abuse is the sincerest kind."

  —SOLOMON SHORT

  I stood there staring at that goddamned door for thirty seconds without saying a word.

  I put my hands on it and pressed. The metal was cold.

  I rested my head against the solid wallness of it. My hands clenched into fists.

  "Shit!"

  And then I said a whole bunch of other words too.

  I swore as long as I could without repeating myself, then switched to Spanish and kept on going.

  And when I finally wound down, I felt no better than when I had started.

  I felt used. Betrayed. And stupid.

  I began to pace around the apartment again. I kicked the terminal every time I passed it. Useless hunk of junk. I couldn't even use it to call room service.

  I wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge—it was surprisingly well stocked. But I wasn't hungry. I was angry. I started opening drawers. Someone had thoughtfully removed all of the carving and steak knives.

  And swearing didn't do any good anymore. It only left my throat dry. And me feeling foolish. The minute you stop, you start to realize how silly it looks.

  What I really wanted to do was get even.

  I walked back into the living room of the suite and gave the terminal another kick. A good one—it nearly toppled off the stand, but I caught it in time. And then I found myself wondering why. The damn thing wouldn't communicate with me—I didn't owe it any favors.

  I shoved it off the stand and onto the floor.

  It hit with a dull thud.

  I picked it up and shook it. It didn't even sound broken.

  "I know—" I carried it out to the balcony and threw it over the side.

  It bounced and scraped down the sloping side of the building and shattered on the concrete below with a terrifically satisfying smash.

  I threw the stand after it.

  And then a chair.

  And a lamp.

  And a small table.

  The TV screen was bolted to the wall. I hit it with the second chair—it took three tries to smash it—and then threw the chair after its companion.

  Bounce, bounce, scrape, slide, crash, smash. Great.

  What else?

  The microwave oven.

  The nightstand from the bedroom.

  Three more chairs.

  Two more lamps.

  The dining-nook table.

  A hassock.

  All the hangers from the closet.

  Most of the towels and sheets.

  A king-size mattress and box spring. Those last were particularly difficult.

  It was while I was struggling with the box spring that I realized a crowd had gathered below—at a safe distance, of course. They were applauding each new act of destruction. The more outrageous it was, the louder the cheers.

  The bedframe and headboard drew a standing ovation.

  I wondered what I could do to top it. I began to clean out the kitchen.

  All the dishes—they sounded great as they clattered and crashed on the street below—and all the pots and pans.

  All the flatware.

  The contents of the refrigerator—and the shelves as well.

  Almost all the bottled water. I opened one for myself and took a long drink. I stood there on the balcony, catching my breath and wondering why nobody had come up to stop this rain of terror. I finished the bottle and it too sailed out into the night to shatter somewhere in the darkness below.

  I looked back into the apartment. What else? What had I missed?

  The bar!

  I decided to start with the beer. There was a nearly full keg in a half-fridge under the counter. It clanged and bonged all the way down, exploding in a sudsy fountain when it hit. There were screams from the ones who got drenched.

  The half-fridge followed the keg. Shit! Wasn't anything built in anymore? What kind of lousy workmanship was this anyway?

  I stopped, arm cocked in the act of defenestrating a bottle of scotch.

  No. Some things are sacred.

  What was it Uncle Moe used to say? Never kill a bottle without saluting it first? Right.

  I took a swig and sent it to its death.

  There were three bottles of the scotch. I toasted every one. Then I murdered the bourbon. I began to realize that I was going to have to take smaller swigs. This was a very well-stocked bar.

  I assaulted the rums, both light and dark.

  Exterminated the vodka.

  Executed the gin.

  Raped the vin rosé.

  There were fewer shouts coming from below now. Apparently, once I had stopped dropping the big exciting stuff I had lost most of my audience. Well, just as well. Spectacle may be impressive to the unsophisticated, but the real artist works for elegance.

  I staggered back and finished off the liqueurs and the brandies. I saved the sherry for last—after all, it was an after-dinner drink.

  There was a selection of different glasses on a crystal shelf. They followed the bottles. And so did the shelf.

  I prowled around the room, looking for things I'd missed. There wasn't much. I wondered if I could roll up the rug.

  No—I couldn't. I was having too much trouble standing.

  Besides, I had to pee first. I stumbled into the bathroom and threw up. Then I peed.

  "How about a shower?" I hiccuped. "Okay," I agreed with myself, and turned the water on. I found a towel that I'd forgotten to throw and some soap. I also found a box of Sober-Ups in the medicine cabinet. No—I wasn't ready to sober up yet. I put them aside.

  The shower had terrific acoustics. The resonance was perfect for singing. It was all the encouragement I needed. "When I was a lad in Venusport, I took up the local indoor sport—" I went through the complete librettos of A Double Dose of Love and A Bisexual Built for Two before I ran out of soap.

 

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