'Recently, yes.'
'Strongly recurring? By that I mean you drink, wait, feel an intense thirst and then have to drink again. All in short intervals. Too short to be normal. Yes?' His frown deepened as Dumarest nodded. 'Any vomiting, signs of nausea, double vision?'
'No. Why?'
'Persistent thirst is a symptom of brain damage. A symptom, mind, not conclusive evidence that such damage exists. Coupled with difficulty in moving and a general torpor it could signal a lesion in the base of the brain.' His eyes narrowed at Dumarest's sudden tension. 'Is anything wrong?'
'No. Can you test for such damage?'
'Of course. If you wish I'll make an appointment for you to come in later.'
'Now.' Dumarest threw his legs over the edge of the cot and sat upright. He wore only a thin hospital gown. Rising he felt a momentary nausea which was the natural result of a body which had rested too long and had been too quickly moved. 'I want you to do it now.'
As the doctor readied his instruments there was time for thought. The dominant half of the affinity twin which he had injected into himself had nestled at the base of the cortex. When Chagney had died it should have dissolved and been assimilated into his metabolism. But-if Chagney had not died?
The concept was ridiculous. He had forced the body to step into space. He had seen through the borrowed eyes the naked glory of the universe. Had felt them burst, the lungs expand, the tissue yield to the vacuum. All had died, brain, bone, body-all dehydrated in the emptiness of the void, drifting now and for always in the vast immensity of space.
Dead.
Totally erased.
Then why did he continue to hear the crying? The thin, pitiful wailing of a creature trapped and helpless and knowing he was to die?
'Are you all right?' The doctor was standing before him, leaning forward over the chair, his eyes anxious. 'Here!' His hand lifted bearing a vial, pungent vapors rising from the container to sting eyes and nostrils. 'Inhale deeply. Deeply.'
Dumarest pushed it aside. 'Doctor, how long can a brain live?'
'Without oxygen about three minutes. After that time degeneration of tissue begins to set in and any later recovery will be attended by loss of function.'
'And if it could be preserved in some way? Frozen, for example?'
'As it is when you travel Low?' The doctor pursed his lips. 'Theoretically, in such a case, life is indefinite. In actual practice the slow wastage of body tissue will result in final physical breakdown and resultant death. I believe, on Dzhya, they have criminals who have lain in the crytoriums for two centuries and who still register cerebral activity on a subconscious level. In theory, if a brain could be thrown into stasis, residual life would remain.'
In a brain suddenly exposed to the vacuum of space? One dehydrated and frozen before any cellular disruption could have taken place?
Was the subjective half of the affinity twin still alive?
'You're sweating,' said the doctor. 'You don't have to be afraid.'
Not of the machines and instruments ringing the chair but there was more. Was he still connected to Chagney? Would he continue to hear the man crying? Had he locked himself into a prison from which there could be no escape?
How to find a drifting body in the void? How to destroy it?
'Steady,' said the doctor. 'Just relax and close your eyes. I want to insert a probe and take some measurements. Just think of something pleasant.'
A dead man drifting, ruptured eyes scars in the mask of his face, blood rimming his mouth with a long-dried crust, his heart a lump of tissue, stomach puffed, lungs a ruin- but his brain? His mind? The thing it contained?
'Easy,' said the doctor. 'Easy.'
A probe silling into his mind. Dumarest could imagine it, the slender tool plunging deep, touching the artificial symbiote nestling at the base of the cortex, stimulating it, perhaps, building a strengthened bond with its other half.
Would his mind fly to that other body? Live again in dead and frozen tissue? Know nothing but the silent emptiness, the unfeeling void?
A chance, but a risk which had to be taken. He had to know.
'Steady!' The doctor drew in his breath. 'There!' He let the moment hang as he checked the withdrawn probe and studied the findings. 'Nothing. The scan shows no trace of a tumor and no excessive pressure. There is no scarring and no malformation. There is however a trace of an unusual compactness of tissue at the base of the cortex as if there was a slight concentration of molecular structure. Biologically it is nothing to worry about. It may barely, have given rise to your increased thirst but I tend to think the cause is more psychological than physical.'
'How so?'
'As you know Zakym is an unusual world. Some adapt and some do not. A few find it too disturbing to live here for long. There is a breakdown in the adaption syndrome which reveals itself in unusual physical oddities. One man, I remember, developed a tormenting itch while another acquired a craving for salt. If the thirst continues I would be tempted to look for the reason in the psychosomatic region. You are in excellent physical condition and you most certainly have nothing to worry about as regards the organic health of your brain.'
'Thank you,' said Dumarest.
'For giving you reassurance?'
'For saving my life. The bill?'
'Lady Lavinia has taken care of that. She left word she would be waiting for you at the hotel.'
It was night and Dumarest made his way through the maze of tunnels connecting the various buildings of the town. A corridor led to the hotel and he climbed stairs leading to snugly shuttered chambers. Lavinia was in the common room seated at a table. She was not alone.
'Earl!' She rose as she saw him and came to meet him, smiling, hands extended. They lifted to fall to his shoulders as, without hesitation, she pressed herself close, her lips finding his own. 'Thank God you are well! The doctor-'
'Gave me a clean bill of health.' Holding her he added, quietly, 'You saved me.'
'You saved yourself. We saw the smoke and found you and I had men ride back to summon the physician and get a raft. Roland helped. Chelhar-Earl, what happened?'
'A mistake.' One which had cost the assassin his life but this was not the time or place to talk about it. Dumarest glanced at the man seated at the table. 'A friend of yours?'
'Not of mine, of yours. Don't you recognize him? Kars Gartok. He arrived this afternoon Ilyard. He claims to have known you for years.'
He rose as they approached the table, his scarred face creasing into a smile. His bow was deferential without being obsequious. A man accustomed to dealing with the rich and powerful but one who had retained his independence.
He tensed as Dumarest strode towards him, seeing the eyes, the anger they held, the set of the mouth which had grown cruel. A killer's mask. Quickly he lifted both hands and held them before him. The fingers were devoid of rings.
'I am unarmed!'
'And a liar!'
'There are times when need dictates deception. You were unavailable.' He glanced at the woman. 'My lady I apologize for my subterfuge yet I did not wholly lie. While not close we do have mutual acquaintances if not exactly friends. Major Kan Lofoten, for example? You remember him, Earl?'
Dumarest met the deep-set eyes, his own shifting to the temples, the scars, the corners of the mouth, recognizing the choice the man had given him by the use of his name. He could reject it and learn nothing.
'Hoghan,' he said. 'You were there?'
