Involution Ocean

years, miles of dust over their heads, learning, living, always growing stronger, until they are wise in ways we can’t pos­sibly understand, until they’re like . . . like gods of the deep.”

“Gods of the deep,” said Desperandum analytically. “A classic form of superstition. Understand, Murphig, that my refusal of your offer does not mean any lack of esteem for you personally. You’re a fine sailor. But that’s all you are.”

“What about the sharks?” Murphig said. His mouth tightened. “I’ve been watching them. I’ve been watching everything.” He speared me with a quick glance. “They’re always here when we kill a whale. They can’t see it. They cant smell the blood, because the dust soaks it up. Their ears are tiny, they cant hear it But they know when some­thing has died. I watched you cut one up, Captain. I know their brains are very small. But they’re cunning and vi­cious; they have more intelligence than any beast has a right to have.”

“We’ve been over this before,” Desperandum said re­signedly. They have pilot fish, remember? Surely you were watching them, little beasts with wings and large, perfectly functional eyes.”

Murphig was silent.

“Have you had your say, crewman?” .

“One more thing, Captain,” said Murphig, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “We’ll see by the end of the voyage whose ideas are closest to God’s own truth. But IH say this. You’re putting your life and maybe more than your life in danger when you tamper with things you don’t understand.”

Abruptly, Desperandum burst into deep bass laughter. Finally, he stopped and wiped tears of laughter from his small, wrinkle-crusted eyes. “I apologize, Murphig, if I failed to show the proper regard for your people. It was just that until now I had never realized your potential for amusement.”

Murphig’s pale face turned paler. With clumsy, knotted hands, he pulled on his target-spotted dustmask, went through the cabin door, and then ran up the stairs three at a time.

“I didn’t enjoy having to snub him like that,” Desperan­dum said earnestly. “I like the man’s attitude. But it’s the gene pool, you understand. When a planet is settled exclu­sively by mystics, by religious fanatics, the fuzziest among us, those with the fewest redeeming tinges of rationality . . . well, I’m sure you understand, Newhouse.”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“And when that situation is complicated by an essen­tially rigid and conservative culture . . . well, it’s a ques­tion of human materials. You can’t make an oscilloscope out of wood.”

“Very true,” I agreed.

Desperandum leaned back in his swivel chair, it adjusted with a creak. “What can I do for you, Newhouse?”

“I was wondering if you had seen—'

“Oh yes, the lookout woman. I seem to recall that our last conversation on this subject was broken off rather ab­ruptly.”

I said nothing, but tried to look a little chagrined. “Do you know where she is, sir?”

“I have a lot of respect for you, Newhouse, as a man, as a Terran, and of course as a cook. It’s the first time I’ve eaten decently since I came to the crater.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And I have a high regard for Dalusa, too. She was with me on both my previous voyages. But I view your relation­ship with considerable apprehension. I wonder if you’ve ever thought about the kind of motivation that would make a person change her planet, her body, even her entire spec­ies.”

“She mentioned something about never quite fitting in.”

“She was a freak,” Desperandum said bluntly. “She was hideous. None of her, ah, tribe would touch her or talk to her. She was a pariah.

“Then the , expedition came, creatures like gods in infection-proof suits. They were willing to talk. They were willing to tell their ideas to anyone who would listen. So, an occupational hazard, they were ripped to shreds.” Des­perandum shrugged. “So, Dalusa’s tormentors died in hid­eous agonies, contaminated by the blood of their victims. When the next expedition came, as they always do, Dalusa was ready. And she left with them to go under the knives.”

“A laudable decision,” I said.

Desperandum frowned. “It’s unwise to apply human standards to an alien, I know. But did it ever strike you that Dalusa might not be sane?”

“Captain, there are no objective standards for determin­ing sanity. As you say, it is absurd to apply human stan­dards to her, and, if she were insane by her own standards, I fail to see how it would be of any relevance to me. After all, I have no idea what poses for sanity among her native people, but from what you have told me, they seem mark­edly unpleasant.”

“What if I told you it had something to do with blood?” Desperandum said. “Human blood, the agency of her sal­vation. What if I told you blood was her obsession, even a sexual fetish?”

“Frankly, Captain, I think I’d ask where you got your information.”

There was silence for a few seconds. “I guess I won’t tell you that then,” Desperandum said finally.

“Then to turn to our earlier topic of conversation: I want you to keep a sharp eye on young Murphig. He won’t jump ship. For a Nullaquan whaler, that’s unthinkable. But he has been acting strangely lately. Sometimes sluggish, sometimes almost jittery, as if he were under the influence of some—' I held my breath while Desperandum searched for a word. “—some form of religious excitement You have to expect a kind of prophet syndrome in cultures like this. If there’s any unrest aboard the Lunglance, Murphig is likely to be at the center of it.”

“I’ll watch him, Captain,” I promised.

“Fine. Oh, by the way. Could you clean up that mess on the dining table on your way out?”

“Captain,” I said gently. “What about my question?”

It was then that I knew for sure that Desperandum was an old man. A blank, almost terrified look flashed across his face, an expression I had seen before on the faces of old Timon Hadji-Ali and the Undines. A desperate search among the accumulated centuries of memory, memories packed and distorted by the inadequate human brain.

But Desperandum found it fast “Dalusa. She’s in the kitchen, waiting. Waiting for you.”

I stacked the greasy dishes and put my mask bad: on. Then I carried them up on the deck, where the workmen were still working industriously, and went into the kitchen.

It was dark. I turned on the light switch with my elbow and set fhe dishes on the counter.

Dalusa was sitting on the stool next to the door leading into the ship’s stores. She still had her mask on; her hands were folded at her throat and her wings hung from her arms like black velvet draperies.

I hoisted myself up on the counter next to the dishes and faced the woman. I took off my mask. “I want to talk to you, Dalusa. Won’t you take off your mask?”

Dalusa reached for the strap on the back of her mask and slipped it up over hejr head slowly. Her attempt at drama was so transparent that I became impatient But I restrained myself.

She lifted the mask slowly from her face, still keeping it between us so that I could not see her face. Then she sud­denly dropped it.

I could feel the blood drain away from my face, could swear that I felt it trickling through a million arteries dowq into my neck and away. Dalusa’s pale, ruined face turned gray in my vision. Feeling cold and sick, I gripped the edge of the counter with both hands.

Dalusa looked as if she had sucked on a spongeful of acid. Her mouth was swollen and hideous; her lips were so puffed and distorted that they looked like small purple sau­sages. White shreds of damp, dead skin adhered to the outer edges of her lips, and her ruined mouth was dotted with black and yellow ulcerated blisters.

I looked away. Then Dalusa spoke. I was so amazed that she was able to talk, that I almost missed her words. She talked slowly and lispingly, and her Hps seemed to have an unnatural adherence. They parted stickily with every con­sonant.

“Do you see what you’ve done to me?”

“Yes,” I said. It would only increase her torment to point out that it was more her responsibility than mine.

But she said nothing, and the silence stretched out ago­nizingly. Finally I said, “I had no idea that it would be