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all, it's no secret between us that I once worked for the Plan Police. The
fact is that I first came here on the
Donderevo case. It was not broken until I had managed to persuade one of the
guilty surgeons to use the same method to help me escape."
She yawned, smiling with a feline satisfaction.
"If you came here as a spy, why are you "
He stopped, feeling a horrified embarrassment.
"Why am I still here? Don't be ashamed to ask that, Steve. I'm here because by
the time I finished my task I was well as you see me. Naturally the Plan could
not divert resources for my sake ... so
... I was declared surplus. Oh, I won't deny it disturbed me a little, at
first. But I came to accept it. And you will too, Steve. You see, you have no
other choice."
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Accept the fate he would not, though he was powerfully tempted. A rain shower
in the middle of the night woke him and he ran out, careless that he woke his
cabin mates and left them staring, to find a stan.dpipe under the eaves and
drink, drink, drink. It gave him the strength he needed. The next morning he
could see a difference. He held out his hand before him and it shook. It
shook! He was nervous.
He was also very hungry.
Water was not, for the moment, a problem. He had found a jug that would do and
carefully filled it from the drain of a dozen roofs. It tasted of zinc and
tar. But he was off the drug...
And hungry.
He did not dare to eat in the commissary.
Oporto came to see him at breakfast and that little dark face missed nothing.
"Not hungry, Steve?"
Ryeland pushed aside his untouched plate ham hash! 95
lovely, irresistible coffee! and said, "No. I'm not hungry." Later, in the hut
of the Dixie
Presidents, Oporto still tag.eins along, the little man pointed at the jug of
rain water. "What's that?"
"It's water. In case I get thirsty," said Ryeland, allowing himself a small
drink.
Oporto's face remained thoughtful.
Ryeland found a sense of doom pressing in on him, a fear that dried his mouth
and bothered his digestion damaged already by the curious nature of the few
substances he dared eat. He enjoyed it. He welcomed the fluttering of terror
between his shoulderblades. He looked around him at the other cadavers of
Heaven, and they were zombies, dead-alive, the victims of asphodel. They
laughed and smiled and walked about (when they had what was needful to walk
with), but they were dead men.
Not Ryeland. He was alive, and in a panic. And very hungry.
He managed to shake Oporto just before the second shape-up, and seized time to
study some of the entries in the journal:
Oct. 16. The only examination given to the discarded parts in the trash pile
is visual. They are under the observation of a guard stationed on the watch
balcony of the North Clinic. Sometimes he isn't there, but I do not know why.
Nov. 5. Today I was in the North Clinic on the fifth floor, where the guard is
stationed. I found out why he is sometimes absent, I think. Twice he was
called in to help move patients; apparently this is part of his job. Since I
was strapped to the table with a spinal tap I couldn't watch closely, but it
seems evident that each time he is called inside he will remain there for at
least half a minute, and that the periods at which he is most likely to be
called are those when the operation schedule is heavy. Probably the three
hours or so following each shape-up would be the best time. The morning and
lunch shape-ups are no good. First, I would not be able to conceal my absence
for more than a couple of hours; second, they don't usually dump the scraps
until night anyway. That leaves only the night. Unfortunately not much 96
operating is done then . . . Today it was the left leg, including the femur.
Dec. 3. Unusually heavy call-outs at the shape-up this morning. The rumor is
that there was a nuclear explosion in Baja California and a great many spare
parts will be needed. I wonder.
Tonight?
file:///C|/2590%20Sci-Fi%20and%20Fantasy%20...2001-03%20-%20The%20Starchild%20
Trilogy.txt (45 of 206) [12/28/2004 10:49:10 PM]
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Ryeland turned the page, but he already knew what he would find.
The next entry was the last. It had been close for D.W.H., but not quite close
enough.
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Hunger was beginning to prey on him seriously. His system began to refuse the
sugar.
Oporto was openly suspicious now. He walked with Rye-land all over Heaven.
Down by the palm-
fringed lake he sat with his back against a boulder and watched Ryeland grimly
hurling rocks at the hanging coconuts. Ryeland did not succeed in knocking one
down, but he did, after visiting a few clumps of palms, find one that had
fallen. "I guess you like coconut milk a lot," Oporto said sulkily, seeing how
greedily Ryeland hammered off the outer husk and bashed in the shell.
"I love it." Actually the nut was overripe, and the milk had a foul taste.
"Tastes good with garlic, huh?" Oporto was referring to some wild roots
Ryeland had found, dark green spears thrusting out of the grass with a cluster
of muddy little strong-flavored knobs underground; Oporto had found him
nibbing them experimentally.
Ryeland said: "Leave me alone, will you? I ah don't feel very well."
Oporto sighed. "I'm not surprised." But he wandered away after a while.
Ryeland dismissed him from his mind. He felt weak and starved. It was only
psychological, he told himself; why, shipwrecked mariners had lasted for
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