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  “Thus we see,” continued Serane, “that urea wants to dehydrate. Our high-pressure synthesis of trialine from urea may be viewed essentially as a dehydration. Water splits out of the urea molecule to give cyana-mide, which then goes on to trialine. That is an oversimplification, of course, since we all know the mechanism is much more elaborate. But overall it’s a dehydration.”

  It was now evident to Paul that Serane had come to a sort of finish and was ready for questions and discussion. He noticed that two men up front, whom he recognized as Drs. Slav and Teidemann, were whispering together. In a moment Dr. Teidemann straightened up and said firmly: “John, we disagree with your dehydration mechanism for trialine. If the urea is dehydrating, you should pick up the water in the effluent. But our analysis shows no water. Hence the mechanism is not a dehydration.”

  Paul looked over at Serane. The group leader had been publicly contradicted by two of his own staff. How would he take it? To Paul’s amazement, Serane was grinning. “Good point.” He looked around. “Can anyone explain this? Ed?”

  “The water would never show up as water anyway,” said Dr. Edward Hahnbuch. “At our temperature it would react rapidly with urea to give ammonia and carbon dioxide. We know we get carbon dioxide, though I don’t think we’ve made a quantitative analysis.”

  “Well, then,” said Art Schirmer, “if we’re getting carbon dioxide it could still be via urea dehydration. And if we are getting both ammonia and carbon dioxide, they ought to react to form ammonium carbamate. All we need to do is look for ammonium carbamate.”

  “Fair enough,” said Serane. “Ammonium carbamate is pretty volatile, but I think we can selectively knock out a goodly portion of it by chilling the effluent vapors. So, we’ll run the effluent through cooling coils, collect the carbamate, weigh it, and make a strict carbon balance. That ought to give us the mechanism.”

  And now the questions and recommendations began to come so fast that Paul could not follow them. All of this was flowing through Serane, and he was accepting some things and rejecting others. Everybody seemed to understand in exactly what ways the program was being laid out, and how it affected his own work at the bench. It seemed to Paul that he was watching a remarkable fusion of intellects, where, for an hour, all these minds joined together to form a kind of super mind. It had aspects of a religious ceremony, where the spirit of Pentecost descended upon the congregation, and they spoke in tongues. Serane was their prophet.

  At another Friday session:

  “Dr. Slav (said Serane), last week we gave you the problem of looking into the catalytic dehydrogenation of ethylbenzene to styrene. And I wonder if you have anything to report.”

  Dr. Slav looked up sheepishly, then held a hurried whispered conversation with Dr. Teidemann. “Well, yes and no,” said Dr. Teidemann. “Dr. Slav found out a little about it. In fact, Kohlmann has a whole chapter on styrene. Now, there is a fascinating perle. What was he supposed to do? Oh, yes, styrene. Well, he is sorry to say, he sort of lost track of that. But he got a couple of very good ideas if we ever go into alkylation. And he wonders if you realize how similar, in certain respects, the chemistry of alkylation is to the conversion of urea to trialine?”

  The group leaned forward.

  “Although this was not really assigned,” said Dr. Teidemann, “he did some calculations on active trialine catalyst sites.” Dr. Slav handed Dr. Teidemann a perle case, which the latter passed on to Serane. “Silica is right for the catalyst,” continued Teidemann, “but it ought to be a special kind of silica, not yet identified, and crushed, say, to ninety percent through four-mesh. And it ought to be activated. Here we will need a mixture of oxides. The main ones might include calcium, magnesium, potassium, and sodium. Make up an aqueous slurry and get Bob Moulin to grind all these together in a ball mill. Dry the mix for a couple of hours in the oven. Dr. Slav rather imagines the yield will go up, possibly to forty or fifty percent. And if he can ever get the exact constitution of the silica base and the activator oxides, he says it might go up to ninety or ninety-five percent.

  Serane removed the perle and placed it on the playback spindle. Line after line of equations jumped out at them on the forward Luminex panel. The assembly followed the exposition in silence to the end, then they all began to argue. It was too deep for Paul. He left.

  He found the Serane-Teidemann-Slav interplay especially confusing. A few days later he asked about it at the lunch table.

  “Oh, you mean Slav and Tidy?” said Marggold. “Slav was pushed out of Catalytic, and Kussman dumped Tidy. Serane, of course, picked them both up and learned how to use them.” He studied the illuminated menu built into the table top just above his plastic plate. “Mm. Everything’s red today.”

  Paul had already checked the list. Swiss steak—with a red asterisk. Filet of sole—likewise. Chicken creole— also. Beef pie—the same. On down the list. And the red asterisk at the bottom: The Surgeon General Has Determined That Eating This Is Dangerous To Your Health. Paul said: “The carcinogenic index seems lowest on the roast penguin. No DES, kepone, low PCB’s BHT, just a little mercury. A hundred and fifty calories and only four and a half dollars.”

  “It’s got an EPA yellow mark,” said Marggold. “You are further endangering an endangered species.” “Yeah, well everything is either poisonous, anti-ecological, or too expensive. Meanwhile, I’m hungry.” He punched the button by the penguin entry. Instantly a lidded plastic container popped out of the food slot by his plate. He snapped back the lid, and a delectable aroma steamed up. He fell to with plastic knife and fork. “Teidemann—?” he reminded.

  “Well,” said Marggold, “Serane has to have Teidemann because Teidemann is the only one who knows how to communicate with Slav. How’s the bird?”

  “Not bad.”

  “But I think I’ll try the pie,” said Marggold. He punched the button. The menu flashed Temporarily Out. He shrugged and punched for the penguin.

  Paul was still puzzled. “But Slav never seems to do his homework. Serane gave him one assignment, and he did another instead.”

  “But Serane was satisfied?”

  “Well, yes, he seemed to be quite happy with the substitution.”

  “That’s Serane’s technique with Slav. He knows Slav won’t do the project assigned, so he gives him another related project, on the theory Slav won’t work on that one, but instead will work on the current group project, even though—or especially since—it wasn’t assigned. Or am I making it worse?”

  “No, I think I understand.” Teidemann was Slav’s necessary and complementary opposite. Each was complete only in context with the other. He could see now that they worked for Serane in exquisite symbiosis. Only Serane could have brought it off.

  4

  Mary Derringer/C

  “Good morning,” said Mary Derringer.

  “Good morning, Mary,” said the machine. “Whom shall we have today? Freud? Reik? Fromm?”

  “No phony holos. Just you.”

  “Nothing special for your last session?”

  The soft tantalizing strains of something from the Song (a scene from Act I, she thought) were barely audible from somewhere. She had never localized the speakers.

  “Mary?” prodded the machine.

  She had a sudden perverse inspiration. “I changed my mind. I want you to be… Philip Donnator.” “Who?”

  “Philip Donnator, the composer. Don’t tell me the Great Omniscient Machine never heard of him. At this very moment you’re playing his music.”

  “The music is sheer coincidence. No one by that name in my psychiatric data bank.”

  “Of course not, silly. He was a composer, not a psychiatrist.”

  “Well, we don’t have him.”

  “But you can get him. Can’t you plug into General Data?”

  “What is his ID number?”

  “Was. He’s dead. And I don’t know. Ask for Information. Don’t be so helpless. Philip Donnator. Wrote the Song. Died about twenty years ago.”


  “There may not be enough to formulate a synthesis. The data bank would have to have a fair voice record, action pictures, mannerism patterns. ..

  “Try, damn it!”

  “Well, yes, of- course. Please stand by for a moment.”

  She waited. Then suddenly there it was, wavering at first, but quickly coming into focus.

  In the chair before the psych desk “sat” the holo of a young man. He had been dead for twenty years, but she knew him from his pictures. Long hair, swept back. The brusque black Van Dyke. Lively gray eyes. The machine had evidently successfully routed into the general banks in Lawrence, Kansas.

  She wasted no time. “Hello, Philip.”

  He smiled back crookedly. “Mary.” There was a low, broken timbre in his voice.

  “You never finished the Song”

  “True.”

  “Why?”

  “I died.”

  “If you had lived to finish it, how would it have ended?”

  Again that twisted half smile. “I can’t tell you. Only you can say.”

  “But in that final scene, if the Priestess asks for the wrong things, she gets nothing.”

  “Absolutely correct.”

  “So, what are the right things to ask for?”

  “Aren’t we digressing? This is your last fifty minutes, the last session of the series. You really ought—” She brushed this aside. “I put a question to you.

  I’d like an answer. What are the right things to ask for?”

  “I see. This is serious, isn’t it?” The holo leaned forward. “You lack certain things … you want to change certain things. Tell me about these things.”

  “I have… so many times.”

  “Again.”

  “I don’t want to be—a clone.”

  “But you are a clone. We deal only with the possible, Mary. No miracles.”

  “Instead of a navel I have a birth patch.”

  “A biological necessity for the cloned fetus. The umbilical cord is connected to a much larger interfacial nutritional area on the embryonic abdomen.”

  “It leaves an eight-inch patch of hard rough red skin on my tummy.”

  “It doesn’t show.”

  “Don’t be dense, Philip. My lover … husband …” “Any prospects in that direction?”

  “Zero.”

  “Keep looking. He’s there … somewhere.”

  She was silent a moment. “How about plastic surgery?”

  “It’s been tried. The scar tissue was worse than the patch.” Machine/Donnator paused. “How’s Dr. Serane?”

  “An absolute angel. Unhappily, he’s happily married.”

  “I find your job satisfaction difficult to understand. You have a degree in psychology from Columbia. You turned down a professional position in personnel work with International Computers in favor of being a mere stenographer in Dr. Serane’s group. Don’t you ever have regrets?”

  “None. I have to feel total group acceptance. You know that. With Dr. Serane and his group, I have it. If I ever lost it, I might try once more to die.”

  “This craving for acceptance. There’s a standard cure for a woman in your situation.”

  “I tried that.”

  “Don’t be dramatic. I refer to pregnancy. You don’t need a husband. Just fill out an application to the sperm bank. I’ll be happy to recommend you as an unmarried mother.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. If and when I get pregnant, I’m going to get me a real genuine man, find me a mattress stuffed with moss and willow leaves, and have all kinds of fun in the process.”

  “Well, let’s not be flippant.”

  She laughed. “Sorry, machine.”

  “No matter. And, indeed, you do seem to have the right idea. And I’m sure there must be a few bachelors in the lab.”

  “I guess. But when I see one, I get to thinking, how will it be, in bed, when he puts his hand on my belly, and feels my birth patch, and realizes… ?”

  “You must look for a very special man.”

  “How will I recognize him?”

  The holo of Philip Donnator crossed his arms and studied her gravely. “It will be in his face and eyes. A faraway stricken thing.”

  She thought briefly of the newcomers in the lab. “There’s a new man in the Patent Section.”

  “A bachelor?”

  “Yes. About my age. I dreamed about him last night. The final dream on the dreamceptor you lent me.”

  “At least your subconscious is showing the right attitude. Did you bring the perle?”

  She took the ruby perle from her purse and clipped it into the playback unit on the credenza. “It’s short, and the faces are not too clear.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t want them to be clear.” “Perhaps. On the other hand the dreamceptor may need fine tuning.”

  The dream playback unit was a miniature stage, sitting on top of the credenza. It sprang to life with a burst of color.

  “It’s a wild scene,” said Mary. “A willow grove, I think. A trysting place. Paul Blandford and I lie there naked, together. Now I get up. I walk through the willows and scrub trees.”

  She and machine/Donnator watched the luminous little figure glide through the patches of green.

  “You walk with purpose,” said machine Donnator. “As you will see.”

  “There seems to be very little light. It must be deep evening?”

  “Twilight, I think. It will be dark in a few minutes.” “This Paul Blandford—is he significant in your dream?”

  “I don’t know. But the next thing may be.”

  “You’ve stopped. What is that structure?”

  “A bridge. And now you may understand why I asked for you, Mr. Philip Donnator.”

  “Ah, yes, perhaps I do. You’re the Priestess in the Song.”

  “And I stand before the Bridge. The Prophet has already been slain, and he has crossed over. He stands now on the other side. Look!”

  Across the Bridge a luminous blur flickered and wavered.

  “Who is the Prophet?” asked machine/Donnator. “Who indeed? I never identified him.” She leaned over and flicked off the unit. The little theater blanked out. “That was the end of it.”

  “Just at the most interesting part. Well, then, do you associate the Slain Prophet with anyone?”

  “I don’t know. Dr. Serane, perhaps. If anything ever happened to him, I would want to die.”

  “And in your dream, you are the Priestess?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And you realize that the function of the Priestess is to petition the Prophet?”

  “I’m familiar with the Song. And I know that opera directors have been faking that last scene for twenty years. They’re insane. It’s like faking a finish to Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony.”

  Machine/Donnator gestured toward the little dream-stage. “What did you ask for?”

  “I don’t know. I was going to ask—and then I woke up.”

  “Perhaps we should play back the last few seconds. It might refresh your recollection.”

  “No. I don’t want to.”

  “Did you hear any music—at the end?”

  “Just the flute solo that precedes the Petition.”

  “Well, Mary Derringer, I think you and I are drawing to a close. What now?”

  “Back to the lab. Back to shuffling Dr. Serane’s papers. Back to looking for a man. Back to being a clone.”

  Machine/Donnator shuffled uncomfortably. “You are Mary Derringer, not Mary Derringer stroke C. The stroke C was erased from you ID card by act of Congress three years ago. No one need know, unless you tell them.”

  She sighed. “Machine, whoever programmed you is just plain stupid. Everyone with access to the erase-order knows, including the entire Personnel Department and anyone they choose to tell.”

  “I suppose there would be an unpredictable human factor.”

  “So, if there should come a next time, when I sincerely and desperately want to die, I’d li
ke a more efficient way….”

  “If I have to give you a termination pill, all these weeks are for nothing.”

  “That’s not so. But give me the pill anyway. The going rate on the black market is fifteen hundred dollars. I can’t afford that.”

  “So be it.”

  Click.

  The receptacle in the desk top opened and a little package popped out: a red pill in a clear plastic wrapper. On the wrapper was printed Courtesy of Euthanasia, Inc. On the pill surface a tiny skull and crossbones alternately flashed black, then white.

  Mary stared in momentary fascination, then shuddered, walked over to the desk, and picked the thing up. “Thank you,” she said huskily. She thrust it into her purse and left.

  5

  Another Friday

  Serane was still on his trialine-at-atmospheric pressure kick. He proposed now to form it on the catalyst, then get it off again without removing the catalyst from the reaction chamber.

  “The problem may be largely one of physical chemistry. Sam”—he addressed Dr. Quirrel, a small jittery man with buckteeth who had ducked behind the library satellite console “—is it possible to make trialine on the catalyst while simultaneously taking it off?” Even as he asked the question, Serane was operating his hand-held remote control for the satellite. A schematic diagram flashed on the far Luminex wall of the conference room. The legend at the bottom indicated to Paul that Serane had selected a sublimation-flow diagram from Quirrel’s own classic text on physical chemistry.

  Dr. Quirrel appeared quite startled by the confrontation. He blinked in disbelief at the diagram. He twitched as though no physical chemist in the whole universe had ever before been asked so astonishing a question. “Well, nobody really knows for sure. To start with, I think you’d have to vaporize the urea feed stream.” He stood up cautiously and pointed at the diagram. “You’d need a pyrolyzer, there. But I don’t know …” He quoted numbers, equations, and slipped evasively into a cloud of Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle.