work out. Or maybe we’ll have something to celebrate.”
The area they were entering looked substantially different from the parts of Salter Station that Judith had already seen. Instead of metal walls and bulkheads they now passed over soft carpeted floors flanked by elaborate murals. At the door of an antechamber they were met by a young man dressed in a skintight electric-blue uniform. To Judith he looked like a pretty child, no more than thirteen years old. His complexion was soft, without a sign of facial hair.
“He has decided that he will see her alone,” he said, in a voice that was not yet fully broken.
Hans Gibbs shrugged, looked at the youth, then at Judith. “I’ll wait for you right here. Good luck — and remember, you’re holding a card that he wants very badly.”
Judith managed a wry smile. “And what he wants, he gets, right? Thanks anyway, and I’ll see you later.”
She followed the young boy in through the curtained entrance. In the reduced gravity his walk lent an elegant, undulating sway to his hips.
Was he accentuating it intentionally? Jan de Vries was probably right about Salter Wherry’s personal tastes — it was the sort of detail that he would know. Judith tried to make her own movements as economical and functional as possible as she followed her guide around the curved floor of the chamber and on to another large room, this one with no viewports. The boy in front of her halted. Apparently they had arrived. Judith looked around her in surprise. Opulence would have been understandable. These were the private living quarters of a man whose fortune exceeded that of most Earth nations — perhaps all. But this?
The room they had entered was bare and ugly. Instead of the drapes and murals of the outer chamber, she was looking at dark walls and simple, plastic-coated floor and ceiling. The furniture was hard upright chairs, a single narrow couch, and an old wooden desk. And there was something else, stranger yet… Judith had to think for a few seconds before she could pin it down. Something was missing. The room lacked any signs of data terminals or display screens; she could not even see a telephone or television outlet.
But Salter Wherry had System-wide influence and interests. One word from him could bankrupt whole States. He must find the most modern and elaborate communications equipment absolutely essential.…
Judith walked over to the desk, ignoring the youth who had brought her in. There was nothing. No terminal, no data links, no modems; not even data cube holders. She was looking at a flat desk top with two buff file folders upon it, and a black book set neatly between them. A Bible.
“Where does he keep all — “ she began.
“Videos? Books? Electronic equipment?” It was a different voice behind her. “I have everything that I find necessary.”
Salter Wherry had quietly entered through a sliding door to her left. The pictures that she had seen of him showed a man in vigorous middle age, substantial and strongly built, with a sensuous, fleshy face and prominent nose. But they had been taken thirty years ago, before Salter Wherry became reclusive. Now the man standing in front of Judith Niles was frighteningly frail, with a thin, lined face. Judith looked at him closely as he held out his hands to take both of hers. The aquiline nose was all that had survived of the younger Salter Wherry. Judith found the new version much more impressive. All the softness had been burned away from the man standing in front of her, and what remained had been tempered in the same inner furnace. The eyes dominated the countenance, glowing bright-blue in deep sockets.
“All right, Edouard. You will leave us now,” said Wherry after a few moments. His voice was gruff and surprisingly deep, not at all an old man’s thin tones. The boy nodded deferentially, but as he turned to leave there was a pout, a condescending look at Judith, and an arrogant sway of his shoulders. Salter Wherry gestured to the narrow couch.
“If it will not make you uncomfortable, I will stand. Long ago I learned that I think better this way.”
Judith felt her stomach muscles tighten involuntarily as she sat on the couch. Wherry’s intuitive perception of motives was legendary. It might be hard to hide any secret from the probing intellect behind those steady eyes. She cleared her throat. “I appreciate your willingness to see me.”
Salter Wherry nodded slowly. “I assume that your desire was not merely social. And I want you to be assured that the problem your Institute will be addressing is of prime importance to me. We have been obliged to introduce so many new precautions in space construction work that our rate of progress on the new arcologies has become pathetic.”
He stood motionless in front of her, quietly waiting.
“It’s certainly not social.” Judith cleared her throat again. “My staff are asking certain questions. I want to know the answers as much as they do. For example, you have a problem with narcolepsy. We are well qualified to tackle it.”
And if I’m right, I may have already solved it. Go carefully now, that’s not the main point at issue.
“But why not employ us simply as your consultants?” she went on. “Why go to the trouble and expense of hiring an entire Institute, at great cost — “ “At negligible cost, compared with a hundred other enterprises I have up here. You will find me generous with money and other resources. ‘Thou shalt not muzzle the ox when he treadeth out the corn.’ “
“All right, even without considering the cost. Why create an Institute, when you want to solve a single problem?”
He was gently nodding. “Dr. Niles, you are logical. But permit me to suggest that you see this with the wrong perspective. The problem is too important to me to use you as consultants. I need a dedicated attention. If you were to remain on Earth, with your present responsibilities to the United Nations, how much of your time would be devoted to my problem? How much of Dr. Bloom’s time, or Dr. Cameron’s time, or Dr. de Vries’ time? Ten percent? Or twenty percent? — but not one hundred and twenty.”
“So why not hire a team for the specific problem? The salaries that you offer would attract many of my staff.”
“And you yourself?” He gave a curious little smile as she looked pensive. “I thought not. Yet I am told that if anyone will solve it, it will be Judith Niles.”
Judith felt the hair on her arms and shoulders tingle into goosebumps. Salter Wherry was willing to move a multimillion dollar operation into space and make a long-term commitment, merely to ensure her own availability. Careful, said the inner voice. Remember, flattery is a tool that never fails.
Did he suspect that she would be obliged to move some of the experiments into space, if her ideas on the processes of consciousness were correct? And if she knew already what was causing the narcolepsy problem in Salter Wherry’s space construction crews, then from his point of view the move of the Institute would be unnecessary. She would be manipulating the master manipulator. “You appear doubtful,” he went on. “Let me offer an additional argument. I know already of your personal indifference to money, and I will not offer it. But what about freedom to experiment?”
He moved over to the desk and picked up one of the two buff folders. His hand was thin, with long, bony fingers. Judith watched warily as he flipped open the folder and held it out toward her.
“In the past year, there have been seven requests to the U.N. from Dr. Judith Niles to conduct experiments on sleep research, using twelve new drugs that affect metabolic rate. The experiments would be done using human subjects — “ “ — all volunteers, as the applications made clear.”
“I know. But all rejected. Perhaps because three years ago, you led an experiment that ended disastrously. The recorded statements are quite clear. Using a combination of Tryptophil and a technique of EEG reinforcement and feedback, you succeeded in keeping three volunteers awake, alert, and apparently healthy for more than thirty days. But then there were complications. First there was atrophy of emotional responses, then atrophy of intellect. To quote one critical review of the study, ‘Dr. Niles has succeeded not in abolishing the need for sleep, but only in inducing Alzheimer’s disease. We do not need more senile dementia.’ “
“Damn it, if you know that much, you probably know who wrote that review. It was Dickson, whose application for identical research — under worse control conditions — was turned down in favor of mine.”
“Indeed I know it.” Salter Wherry smiled again. “My point is not to goad you. It is to ask you how long it will be, for whatever reason, before you are allowed to resume experiments with human subjects — even, as you say, with eager volunteers.”
Judith clenched her hands together hard. Her face was impassive. Just how much did he know? He was at the very brink of the new research.
