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  He glanced at the little tri-di TV in the wall over his dresser. The morning news. Things happening all over the world and in outer space. Martian crew returning after one month on the red planet. South Atlantic pipeline, Kuwait to Texas, to tap into the colossal new lignite-liquefaction complex nearing completion at Baytown. President Jones visiting coal gasification plants in West Virginia, now the most prosperous state in the country. However, the miners threaten to strike if she goes down into a mine. The epidemic in Madras now definitely identified as novarella. Twenty thousand dead. Creeping up the coast toward Calcutta. Still no known cure.

  Paul stared for a moment, then returned to thoughts of trialine while he dressed.

  Ah, Billy! This is going to be a real session. He studied the things on his bureau top as if to draw strength from them. The porous ammonite fossil—he had picked it up at the creekside, near Black Bridge, back in Texas, a place where he and Billy used to go when they were boys. He looked at the series of diaries. Billy’s. Ten little volumes between bookends. And the photo-triptych: the three faces. Dad in the left wing. Billy in the center. Mommee in the right wing. And there were other things … in the bottom drawer. A little red cedar chest. It contained Billy’s ashes. And on top of that, Billy’s will-cassette.

  He broke from his reverie.

  The buzzer was sounding in his tiny kitchen alcove. His bacon and toast were waiting for him in their disposable foils.

  “It is eight fifteen,” said the news service. “You really ought to be moving along.”

  I know, he thought.

  He entered the conference room at one minute of nine. The sensors detected him instantly and turned on the light. Nobody around, of course. At least he could greet them one at a time as they came in. That way would be better than coming in a little late and blinking at an undecipherable cluster of faces.

  He opened his attach^ case, got out his pad, then stared out the window for a moment at the traffic on the Post Road. He heard a slight noise behind him, and he turned.

  A woman entered. He knew immediately it must be Mrs. Pinkster, Kussman’s secretary. He smiled. “Good morning. I’m Paul Blandford, Patents.”

  She nodded very slightly, and without expression. “Pinkster.”

  He knew intuitively he could not shake hands with her.

  “Dr. Kussman will be here in a moment,” she said.

  Kussman’s assistant, Tom Oldham, came in next. He smiled and was pleased to shake hands with Paul. Oldham’s palm seemed dry and hard. Paul had heard that the man’s hands formerly sweated copiously and that he had had all the sweat glands in his palms cauterized by surgical laser.

  Paul noticed now a shrill but muffled moaning. At first it seemed to come from all sides. But as he listened to it, it was evidently strongest from one wall. Certainly, some sort of machinery. He looked at Oldham. “What is that!”

  Oldham smiled. “We’re next to the catalyst grinding room. The mills are mostly sonic, and the noise you hear is a mixture of beats resulting from air vibrations of different frequency. Bob Moulin’s got a couple of mills running right now. Good man, Moulin. Always on the job. Regular as clockwork.”

  And finally Kussman. Fred Kussman was a thin, nervous man in his early forties, just beginning to show flecks of gray in his temples. He too smiled at Paul, but somehow Paul wished he hadn’t. The smile seemed to establish that he had you at some slight disadvantage, and was rejoicing. At first it looked as though his eyes were boring into you. But when you met his gaze squarely, you got the impression that he was actually focusing on the tip of your nose.

  And now, for God’s sake, where was Serane?

  As if to answer, Kussman said: “Serane called a few minutes ago. The Washington tube was fouled up, but he’s driving in now. However, there are certain things that do not need to wait for him.”

  He took a seat between Oldham and Mrs. Pinkster on the opposite side of the table from Paul.

  So they weren’t going to wait.

  Paul shrank into his seat. They were used to Marg-gold. They had confidence in Marggold and none in him. Marggold could hold his own with these barracudas. He was headed for a fiasco. The chemistry and technology of trialine gleaned from the perle last night was alien, strange. He was lost.

  Mrs. Pinkster pulled the mike from the center of the table and spoke briefly into it “Pinkster speaking. Conference January—, 2006. Time, nine-oh-five. Dr. Kussman presiding, with Thomas Oldham and Paul Blandford in attendance. Dr. J. S. Serane is expected.

  Copy of the minutes only to Dr. Kussman for editorial revision. Dr. Kussman will prepare for Circulation B.”

  Kussman leaned forward and addressed the mike. “We made an invention. We carried out the synthesis of trialine in a Korium-lined reaction autoclave. The invention is the use of Korium. It reduces corrosion and cuts attendant impurities in the trialine product. Marggold filed a patent application for us. What happens? You let us slide into an interference with Deutsche.”

  “Blandford,” said Paul to the mike. “It couldn’t be helped. Deutsche made the same invention. They filed their own patent application. The Patent Office declared an interference between our application and theirs. All according to law. We and they can’t both get the same patent on the same invention. Only one can get the patent, the one to prove he was first to invent. And our own Patent Section will do its best to prove Serane invented first. But you must understand we have no reason to suppose Serane will win.” He paused. “As a matter of insurance, the Patent Section recommends that the lab undertake a screening program to turn up other corrosion-resistant metals. You could try the ferrous alloy metals, such as tungsten, chromium, and vanadium; and of course the noble metals: platinum, palladium, iridium, and so on. And even the coinage metals, copper, silver, gold. Have something to fall back on.”

  Kussman leaned back in his chair. He now spoke slowly, as if to make sure the recorder got every word. “There seems to be some misunderstanding about the function of the Patent Section. The Patent Section exists for the benefit of the lab, and not vice versa. The Patent Section does not recommend research to the lab. It is the other way around. We recommend patent effort for you people to undertake.” He fixed his eyes sternly on Paul’s forehead. “Now, Blandford, I want you to understand there is nothing personal in this. But I think we are being treated in a very cavalier way by the Patent Section in their not providing a competent representative at this conference.”

  Paul knew he was visibly turning pale. All of this was going into the permanent company archives. His stomach was beginning to hurt. But what could he say?

  He was distracted by a sound.

  A whistle was coming up the hall, and it moved as though unattached to human source. It was a bouncy, happy whistle. Paul knew it well. It was the Priestess’s dance, from Donnator’s Song, Billy’s favorite opera. By what bright magic had it been transplanted into these grim walls? What elfin mind preached here the great enigma of music?

  The melody floated to the door of the conference room and there stopped.

  And then the door opened and a man walked in.

  This man, thank God, had to be Johnstone S. Serane. Paul stood up and looked at him. At first he was merely startled, not really understanding what he saw.

  Next, he was shaken. Was this for real, or was some weird celestial sense of humor at work?

  For Serane was the physical walking image of Billy.

  He had the jaunty gestures, the cool wry eye, the laugh wrinkles resulting from a continuing observation of his own private absurd universe.

  He had the jutting jaw, the bushy eyebrows, the Donnator haircut. In Serane’s vest pocket, next to his computer remote plug, was a total anachronism: a golden Eversharp pencil, just like Billy’s.

  The chemist walked into the room with a slight stoop, as though leaning into a stiff wind. He gave Billy’s familiar cheerful salute with his right hand, palm forward, slightly cupped.

  It was Billy in his late thirties. Fi
fteen years older, time-ripened.

  Paul sat paralyzed. His cheeks tingled. Patches of goose bumps raced over his body. He felt the hair on the nape of his neck standing up. His throat suddenly clogged with mucus, and he had to catch his breath.

  Serane took the chair opposite Paul and held his hand out over the table. “Serane, Nitrogen Derivatives.” The palm was cool and dry.

  “Blandford,” stammered Paul. “Patents.”

  “Call me John. You’re—?”

  “Paul.”

  Serane looked around the table. “Sorry Pm late. Computer screw-up. Probably the New York Central tapes got stored alongside the Penn-New Haven schedules. All for the sake of saving fifty cents’ worth of storage space. Anyhow, the train whistled right through Manhattan. They finally let us off at White Plains. I rented an electric and drove over.”

  “Dr. Serane,” said Mrs. Pinkster crisply, “will you please identify your voice to the recorder?”

  “What for?” said Serane cheerfully. “I’ll bet you’ve already ordered your little robots not to give me a copy.”

  “That,” said Mrs. Pinkster coldly, “was Dr. Serane. We may now proceed.”

  “Sure,” said Serane. “Have you reached any conclusions?”

  From the comer of his eye Paul saw that Kussman’s mouth was twisting petulantly.

  “How could we?” said Kussman. “The inventor of this process has only just now made available to us the benefits of his omniscience.”

  Serane smiled. But he was not to be hurried. In a smooth, efficient motion he pulled a pipe from the rumpled right pocket of his rumpled jacket. From an equally rumpled left-hand pocket he drew a leather pouch, which he unzipped. He dug the pipe bowl into the tobacco, tamped it down a little with his middle finger, and put die stem in his mouth while he rezipped the pouch and returned it to his pocket. He squirmed briefly, then extracted an enormous match from somewhere. This he struck loudly on the underside of the conference table.

  Mrs. Pinkster shuddered.

  Paul was astonished. “What was that?"

  “Kitchen match,” explained Serane mildly, as he shook it to extinction. “Fifty years ago you could buy them in grocery stores. They were used to light gas stoves and fireplaces and what not. Have to order them special nowadays. Wonderful for pipes, though.”

  Paul stared in fascination. All this was going into the recorder—evidently a matter of total irrelevance to Serane. “But isn’t it dangerous to carry matches in your pocket?”

  “There is that little disadvantage,” admitted Serane. “They tend to light prematurely. And there you are, with your clothes on fire, but nothing for your pipe. Frustrating.”

  “John,” said Kussman. “For God’s sake . .. trialine … Korium …”

  “Sorry, Fred. Where were we? Ah, yes …” He calmly blew a smoke ring.

  How in the name of heaven does he do that? thought Paul.

  Serane looked across at him. “I understand Deutsche has offered to settle.”

  “That’s right.”

  “If we don’t settle, can we win?”

  “Marggold says the chances are poor. We’re junior party. And we don’t think you can prove that you reduced to practice before they filed.”

  “You see?” said Kussman. “We’re stuck at the outset with a confession of incompetent defeatism.”

  Serane laughed. “That’s a great morale-building speech, Fred. And since you have laid it out on a personal basis, let’s continue on that basis for a moment. Firstly, before you complain that you are stuck with the Patent Section, in general, or with Paul in particular, don’t forget that Paul is stuck with you. He works for this great and beneficent company just the same as you do.”

  “I’m not through.” Serane puffed thoughtfully, then continued. “You are perhaps blinded by the fact that Korium works, and works beautifully. This perhaps makes you forget that it was just one metal proposed in a list of several dozen. By pure coincidence it was the first thing we tried.”

  Is it so? Billy, have you risen again, Phoenixlike, from your ashes? Have you rejoined the living?

  “But if we had adequate patent service,” sniffed Kussman, “we wouldn’t have to spend money on all those other metals.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Serane sweetly. “Meanwhile, in view of the legal situation, I am going to recommend to you in writing, separate from these minutes, number one, that we try to settle on some reasonable basis; and number two, that the corrosion tests be resumed. If a couple of years from now it turns out that we fight this interference and lose it, and can’t build a plant because we have not developed any other metals, I am going to send Hedgewick a copy of my recommendation.”

  Kussman said stiffly, “If you two are through blackmailing me, I really have other things to do.”

  “Sure,” said Serane. He got up.

  Mrs. Pinkster leaned over and spoke into the mike. “Conference concluded at ten thirty-five.” She punched off the recorder.

  Paul followed Serane from the room. “What’s going to happen now?”

  “You don’t know? No, I guess you wouldn’t. Well, Freddie will send a memo to Hedgewick, and it will say that, contrary to the recommendation of the Patent Section, not to mention mine, he urges that we settle with Deutsche and also start the alternate metals program. And Hedgewick will approve it because it makes sense. It’s all over. Freddie won.” He grinned.

  It was infectious. Paul laughed with him.

  3

  Serane on Fridays

  Serane held his group meetings on Friday afternoons. There was something special about Fridays, and Serane knew it, and used it. Friday was creative, relaxing, a day of spontaneity. It held a high communication index.

  The meetings had long ago outgrown Serane’s little office. They now met in the conference room down the hall from the Nitrogen Bay. The audience included a number of key men from other groups who somehow were able to convince their own group leaders that their programs were related to Serane’s and that participation was a life-and-death matter.

  Even from the beginning Serane had refused to use the interoffice conference visi hookups. He wanted a live audience, where everyone could see everyone else. And furthermore, he loved to use the Luminex wall and ceiling panels of the conference room for his visual demonstrations.

  The only man from Serane’s own group who never attended was Robert Moulin. All during the discussion, they could hear the muffled torture of the ball mills.

  In these Friday lectures Serane generally took the scenic route. It was evident to Paul that Serane was trying to make his staff think of analogies, to perceive patterns, to seek solutions in the behavior of parallel compounds and processes. And for this reason he made tours into history, and into seemingly odd and irrelevant technical bypaths. Via tortured paths of past failures, he brought them out to vistaed overlooks.

  “As we all know,” began Serane, “our current method of making trialine from urea requires high pressures, and the yields are poor. We’d very much like to make trialine from urea at atmospheric pressure, and in ninety-plus percent yields. Can it be done? Is it theoretically possible? Well, maybe. It depends on the mechanism. I suggest to you that the mechanism involves dehydration of the urea molecule. Can the urea molecule be dehydrated in good yield at atmospheric pressure?” He looked about the group. Several heads were shaking. “No?” He smiled. “Well, you’re wrong.”

  The room suddenly darkened. The Luminex panels lit up. Paul heard a terrifying shriek and ducked as something flapped overhead.

  Serane laughed. “Relax! It was just a pterodactyl. I borrowed a couple of clips from the museum. You see? Historically, the first urea dehydration at atmospheric pressure was biological. The paleontologists tell us it happened millions of years ago, as the age of the dinosaurs was coming to an end. The long drought of the Cretaceous, when the lakes and marshes dried up, forced a final evolutionary change in the reptiles. They had to conserve water. This required a basic change in me
tabolic use. They no longer discharged urea as an aqueous solution. Rather, they subjected it to a final molecular dehydration to yield uric acid. We know this because all the reptile survivors succeeded in this great metabolic leap. In fact, today, gram for gram, snake excreta is the most concentrated natural source of uric acid.”

  The scene changed again. A gigantic boa constrictor was hanging motionless from a tree limb. Below a peccary trotted into view. The reptile dropped. The pig dashed away, squealing. “Oh, don’t worry,” explained Serane genially. “The snake didn’t go to bed supperless. He ate the cameraman.”

  They laughed.

  Serane continued. “The ancestors of the mammals never passed through this urea dehydration development. Today, mammals still excrete urea directly as an aqueous solution. But all the reptiles and their descendants—birds especially—go the urea dehydration route. And where do we get uric acid today? From birds.”

  Here, a flight of albatrosses dipped and wheeled noisily overhead.

  Paul could hear breathing, but that was all. He looked around him cautiously, to get an idea of how they watched Serane. The man next to him had brought a portable TV recorder, but it lay inert in his lap. He had forgotten to turn it on.

  “The early chemical industry,” continued Serane, “made money on a commodity which even today is almost our only commercial source of uric acid. I refer to guano, of course. Seabirds have built up immense layers of excrement on islands off the coasts of Peru and Chile, which over the years have lost volatile matter and have hardened to a grayish mass of ammonium urate and calcium phosphate. And ponder this: The bird goes from urea to uric acid without benefit of catalyst or pyrolysis chamber.