'I understand it involves extreme stress.'
'You can say that again, Jack.'
Reave put a hand on the Minstrel Boy's shoulder. They both knew that in the end he was going to do it. They also knew that by doing it he was putting his sanity at considerable risk.
Reave faced the crewman. 'You have cyclatrol?'
'Plenty. It was fed constantly to the brain host.'
The Minstrel Boy sighed. 'Poor bastard.'
While Reave and the Minstrel Boy were engaged with the crew and the problem of navigation, Billy and Renatta moved from cabin to cabin in search of Stent and Jet Ace. They were almost to the stern when Renatta pushed open a door, let out a startled gasp, then quickly beckoned to Billy.
'This you gotta see.'
It was one of the smallest caibins. Stent and Jet Ace were both on the floor, pressed together in the narrow space between the bunk and the floor, where they must have been thrown by the first violent bucking of the ship. Each man had removed about half his metal exterior. What was revealed was not a pretty sight. Jet Ace was normal from the neck up but Stent had doughy, lopsided features, as though being encased in armor all his life had never allowed real features to develop. Clumps of sparse white hair that appeared never to have seen the sun stuck out on patches from his otherwise bald skull. Ugly polyp growth patched discolored skin. One of the creepiest parts was the way the hard polished metal of their prosthetics buried itself in their living bodies. The flesh around those points was red and raw, as though it still rebelled against foreign incursions. Stranger still, though, was the way the two of them were joined together by an elaborate network of jumper cables.
'So this is what they do when they're alone,' Billy said.
'And that's what they look like with their clothes off.'
'They must have been so busy fucking that the first time the ship bounced, they were thrown off the bed.'
'You think fucking is the right word?'
Renatta started to giggle uncontrollably. She was still giggling when Jet Ace opened his eyes.
'You've seen us.'
Billy was having trouble stopping himself from laughing. 'Most people start off with 'Where am I?'
'What happened?'
'We crashed. We were almost eaten by a disrupter.'
'A disrupter? Is it still around?'
Billy shook his head. 'No, it's gone.'
Jet Ace was struggling to sit up. He was hampered by Stent, who was also coming around, thrashing about and entangling himself in the jumper cables. Renatta had another attack of giggles. Jet Ace looked at her resentfully.
'You shouldn't judge, you know.'
Renatta had trouble talking through her fresh fit of giggling. 'I'm sorry. . I'm not. . it's just. .'
Jet Ace became very stiff. 'Would you mind leaving while we dress?'
There was no more laughter when they all gathered in the control room. It was time to be deadly serious. Jet Ace and Stent were back in their armor, inscrutable again. Billy and Reave looked worried, and the Minstrel Boy had the face of a man going to his execution.
'Is it really going to hurt him that much?' Renatta whispered to Blaisdell.
'Could kill him.'
'God.'
Showcross Gee was the only metaphysician present. The others had taken themselves off to their staterooms. He watched the Minstrel Boy impassively. 'There are certain metaphysical techniques — '
The Minstrel Boy turned and snarled at him. 'And you're going to teach them to me in the time we have left?'
Showcross Gee made a slight bow of submission. 'You're right. There wouldn't be time.'
'So don't even talk about it, all right? Let's just get on with this.' He faced the crewman who did all the talking. 'Are you ready?'
The crewman nodded. 'We are ready to raise the airship. If you would all find handholds. There may be a certain amount of vibration.'
Another of the crew, one of the two remaining women, grasped the primary control levers and eased back on them. The R1009 shuddered. She eased back farther. The shuddering increased, then, suddenly, the ship rolled, and the deck righteditself. There was pressure under their feet, and then, with the twisted frame groaning loudly, the airship slowly rose from the ground.
'We have lift-off.'
The crew spokesman looked inquiringly at the Minstrel Boy. 'Are you ready to take the drug and merge with the remains of the biode?'
'How long will I have to be under?'
'As soon as we have a lock on Palanaque, we'll bring you out.'
'Make sure you do.'
'How shall we administer the cyclatrol?'
'An old-fashioned IV will do.'
Although his personality and presentation left a lot to be desired, and his use of poetic analogue and his uncompromising obscurism made him many enemies in the academic community, it has to be said that the La Vortice analysis of the Damaged World era was one of the most perceptive views of this perplexing segment of history. In his essay 'I Sing the Body Reality,' he likens the decay and destruction of the human environment to the physical and mental collapse of a single individual. The series of events that produced the Damaged World and the Final Cataclysm were not merely unrelated disasters but a pattern of breakdown that, once started, was irreversible. Just as in a dying man the liver and kidneys cease to function, the lungs fill with fluid, and the brain retreats into shock and hallucination, the coming of the nothings, the disrupters, and the cycles of violence were all parts of the same thing, symptoms of the overall collapse. La Vortice points out with a dour glee that one of the; first reactions of a dying man is one of complete disbelief. Re ality cannot be trusted because nothing is as it seems.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The minstrel boy stalked into the silver ballroom,stiff-legged and with a face like a mask. Strangest of all, he was carrying the veetar. Renatta was instantly on her feet.
'Are you okay?'
The Minstrel Boy completely ignored her. He walked to a chair on the far side of the ballroom and sat down. Billy, Reave, and Blaisdell watched silently from the bar. They had seen people coming off the horror of cyclatrol before. It was best to leave them alone. Interference in the process could produce a flash flood of irrational fury. Cyclatrol racked up a lot of short-term anger. Renatta looked around at the other three for some sign as to what to do. Reave placed a finger on his lips and shook his head, warning her to leave well enough alone.
The Minstrel Boy placed the veetar across his lap; his hands gently caressed it, and a wash of soaring notes flowed across the ballroom. He looked up with an expression of mild surprise, peering into thin air as though he
