The Quiet Pools

“No,” Oker said. “They’re as objective as possible. They’re blind selections, made by AI engines at the proc centers.”

“According to what criteria?”

“By the criteria spelled out in the application file—skill training, psych screenings, genetic screenings, intelligence and adaptability—”

“Weighted.”

“Of course.”

“What are the weightings?”

“The weightings are necessarily subjective,” Oker admitted. “But that doesn’t mean they were set casually. And I’m not about to let the process we went through to set them be picked apart by a know-nothing judge or a well-meaning but ignorant layman.”

“That seems arrogant, Dr. Oker.”

She bristled. “We don’t even tell the nominees why they’ve been chosen. Or the rejects why they weren’t. Why should we tell you?”

Tidwell studied her. “Are you afraid of the genetic discrimination issue?”

The question seemed to surprise her. “Of course,” she said, recovering. “Almost half of our options are held in countries with antidiscrimination or bodily privacy laws. The American law is particularly troublesome.”

“And yet it’s well known that you’ve expanded your genetic screening since Ur.”

“Is it?”

“Your staff chart shows the section has sixty-five more geneticists than it did six years ago, when you arrived. The obvious conclusion is that the genetic factor has become more important.”

“We were understaffed when I arrived. And we are more thorough now with the genetics. We do full genotypes for every candidate, for example.”

“I know,” said Tidwell. “But why you do them, and what you look for? These questions you have not answered, except in generalities. ‘For screening.’ ‘To create a healthy gene pool.’ I must have better answers.”

She shook her head. “I can’t release that data. You’ll have to do what you can to work around it.”

“It’s not your decision to make,” Tidwell said. “The decision was made by Director Sasaki fifteen years ago. My right of access is unrestricted.”

“Times are different now,” Oker repeated. “We’re prepared to upload standard adoption biographies for each of the donor packages, sometime before departure. The living passengers can obtain private testing and see to their own genealogies, if they think it important.”

“I see,” Tidwell said, sitting back. “Apparently, there was no misunderstanding, after all.”

“You don’t understand what you’re asking for, Professor.”

“For the record, it’s Doctor Tidwell, twice over, in history and sociology,” Tidwell said, crossing his right leg over his left. “You see, we are educable, Dr. Oker—not a one of my staff is dead yet.”

Oker flushed, the first sign of an emotion other than anger. “This isn’t personal, Doctor,” she said. “We have a monopoly on the kind of expertise needed to interpret the raw data. I know, because if we could have found more experts, we’d have put them on staff, too.”

“Then you should be prepared to make one of your experts available to us along with the data,” Tidwell said, rising.

“If the Director requires me to.”

“She will,” Tidwell said. “Aren’t you aware that the Director intends to sell the genetic library to at least three governments as a research base?”

Oker went white. “That hasn’t been announced,” she said stiffly.

“But it’s so, all the same,” Tidwell said.

He saw in her eyes that she knew she had underestimated him; she saw in his that he would not gloat in victory. “The raw data is almost unimaginably voluminous,” she said slowly. “A single genotype is hundreds of thousands of genes, millions of codons—”

“I would imagine we can make do with something less than the full library,” Tidwell said. “Perhaps the selection algorithm and the scoring of the successful candidates will prove sufficient. And you might wish to designate a contact person with authority to answer inquiries, not evade them.”

Reluctantly, she said, “I think that could be arranged.”

He nodded. “Then I’ve taken enough of your time. The details can be worked out by staff. Thank you, Dr. Oker.” He bowed slightly and withdrew toward the door.

He had taken just five steps when she called after him. “Dr. Tidwell—”

“Yes?”

She was standing, and her eyes were clouded by an emotion Tidwell could not quite define. “You wouldn’t do anything to harm us, would you?”

“Pardon me?”

“The Project. You wouldn’t endanger Memphis.”

Puzzlement wrinkled his brow. “What could endanger it?”

“The truth,” she said. “Sometimes the truth can be a very dangerous thing.”

Tidwell retraced his steps. “What will I find if you open your files?”

She looked down at her hands, out the window at the spaceport, everywhere but at him.

“Privacy Level One,” she said at last, lifting her head and gazing levelly into his eyes. The offcom chimed. “Sit down, Dr. Tidwell. I’m going to rewrite your history for you.”

Tidwell listened for nearly an hour, growing paler and smaller with each passing minute. He did not interrupt or quibble, protest or resist. Nor did he make any sign of acknowledgment. He listened so passively that presently Oker interrupted herself to ask if he was all right.

“You’ve asked me to declare my life’s work irrelevant,” he said with a sad smile. “If what you’ve said is true, I’ve been a charlatan. I’ve built a career describing the symptoms of history while the cause went undiagnosed.”

“You’re hardly alone in that,” Oker said. “Less than a hundred people know.”

“Sasaki.”

“Of course,” Oker said. “She was the one who told me, six years ago.”

Tidwell shook his head. “I thought I understood the impulse. That part was written years ago. The unsuccessful search for extraterrestrial life. The sense of cultural mortality created by AIDS. The rechanneling of a post-Cold War economy.”

“All true. Just not the whole story. Another layer, lying underneath.”

“Yes—the curiosity! The unflagging, insatiable curiosity. The challenge to the spirit. From Lucretius to da Vinci to Tsiolkovsky to von Braun to Armstrong to Morgan. The dream they shared.”

“No,” Oker corrected. “The genes they shared.”

“I thought I was tracing the history of an idea. Now you claim that all I’ve done is track an infection.”

“Too harsh a word,” Oker said. “We are what we are.”

“Biology is destiny.” It was said with a cynical scorn.

“Hardly. We might have failed. Might still fail. Others did.”

“Others?”

“We’re not the first species to carry the Chi Sequence. Only the latest.”

“How far back?”

“To the beginning, perhaps. Life is a chemical reaction with audacity. And the meaning of life is to make new life. Nothing more. We just never understood the scale on which the drama was being played.”

“It isn’t our story. It never was,” Tidwell said hoarsely.

“It is now.”

Tidwell retreated, regrouped. “There is no proof.”

“No. Not for the past. But enough for the present.”