Man Plus

Four Group of Probable Pallbearers

Roger Torraway, Col. (Ret.) USAF, B.A., M.A., D.Sc. (Hon.). At the time he woke up in the morning, the night shift finished bench-running the cyborg’s photoreceptors. There had been an unidentified voltage drop caught on the monitors when they were last in use on the cyborg, but nothing showed in the bench test, and nothing had been visible when they were stripped. They were certified serviceable.

Roger had slept badly. It was a terrible responsibility, being custodian of mankind’s last forlorn hope for freedom and decency. When he woke up it was with that thought in mind; there was a part of Roger Torraway — it showed itself most commonly in dreams — that was about nine years old. It took all the things the President said at face value, although Roger himself, doubling as diplomat and mission .head, world traveler, familiar of a dozen capitals, really did not think in his conscious mind that the “Free World” existed.

He dressed, his mind in the familiar occupation of resolving a dichotomy. Let’s assume Dash is on the level, and occupying Mars means salvation for humanity, he thought. Can we cut it? He thought of Willy Hartnett — good-looking (or he had been, till the prosthesiologists got at him). Amiable. Good with his hands. But also a little bit of a lightweight, when you came to look at him honestly. Likely to take a drink too many at the club on a Saturday night. Not to be trusted in the kitchen with another man’s wife at a party.

He was not a hero, by any measure Roger could find. But who was? He cast his mind down the list of back-ups to the cyborg. Number One, Vic Freibart, currently off on a ceremonial tour with the Vice President and temporarily removed from the order of succession. Number Two, Carl Mazzini, on sick leave while the leg he had broken at Mount Snow healed up. Number Three: Him.

There was no Valley Forge quality in any of them.

He made his breakfast without waking Dorrie, got the car out and left it puffing on its skirts while he picked up the morning paper, threw it into the garage and closed the door. His next-door neighbor, walking toward his car pool, hailed him. “See the news this morning? I see Dash was in town last night. Some high-level conference.”

Roger said automatically, “No, I haven’t put on the TV this morning.” But I did see Dash, he thought, and I could take the wind out of your sails. It annoyed him not to be able to say it. Security was a confounded nuisance. Half of his recent trouble with Dorrie, he was sure, came from the fact that in the neighborhood wives’ morning block conference and coffee binge she was allowed to mention her husband only as a formerly active astronaut, now in administrative work. Even his trips abroad had to be played down — “out of town,” “business trip,” anything but “Well, my husband is meeting with the Chiefs of Staff of the Basutoland Air Force this week.” She had resisted. She still resisted, or at least complained to Roger about it often enough. But as far as he knew, she had not broken security. Since at least three of the wives were known to report to the Lab intelligence officer, he undoubtedly would have known.

As Roger got into the car he remembered that he had not kissed Dorrie goodbye.

He told himself that it did not matter. She would not wake up and therefore would not know; if by any chance she did wake up, she would complain at being wakened. But he did not like to give up a ritual. While he thought about it, however, he was automatically putting the car into Drive and keying his code number for the Lab; the car began to move. He sighed, snapped on the TV and watched the Today Show all the way to work.

Fr. Donnelly S. Kayman, A.B., M.A., Ph.D., S.J. As he began celebrating the Mass in the Lady Chapel of St. Jude’s, three miles away, on the other side of Tonka, the cyborg was greedily swallowing the one meal he would get that day. Chewing was difficult because lack of practice had made his gums sore, and the saliva didn’t seem to flow as freely as it should any more. But the cyborg ate with enthusiasm, not even thinking about the test program for the day, and when he had finished he gazed sadly at the empty plate.

Don Kayman was thirty-one years old and the world’s most authoritative areologist (which is to say, specialist in the planet Mars) — at least in the Free World. (Kayman would have admitted that old Parnov at the Shklovskii Institute in Novosibirsk also knew a thing or two.) He was also a Jesuit priest. He did not think of himself as being one thing first and the other with what part of him was left over; his work was areology, his person was the priesthood. Meticulously and with joy he elevated the Host, drank the wine, said the final redempit, glanced at his watch and whistled. He was running late. He shed his robes in record time. He aimed a slap at the Chicano altar boy, who grinned and opened the door for him. They liked each other; Kayman even thought that the boy might himself become both priest and scientist one day.

Now in sports shirt and slacks, Kayman jumped into his convertible. It was a classic, wheels instead of hoverskirts; it could even be driven off the guided highways. But where was there to go off the highways? He dialed the laboratories, switched on the main batteries and opened his newspaper. Without attention the little car nosed into the freeway, found a gap in the traffic, leaped to fill it and bore him at eighty miles an hour to his job.

The news in the newspaper was, as usual, mostly bad.

In Paris the MFP had issued another blast at the Chandrigar peace talks. Israel had refused to vacate Cairo and Damascus. New York City’s martial law, now in its fifteenth month, had failed to prevent the ambush of a Tenth Mountain Division convoy trying to sneak across the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge to the relief of the garrison in Shea Stadium; fifteen soldiers were dead, and the convoy had returned to the Bronx.

Kayman dropped the paper sadly. He tilted the rear-view mirror back, raised the side windows to deflect some of the wind and began to brush his shoulder-length hair. Twenty-five strokes on each side — it was almost as much a ritual with him as the Mass. He would brush it again that day, because he had a lunch date with Sister Clotilda. She was already half convinced that she wanted to apply for relief from certain of her vows, and Kayman wanted to resume the discussion with her as soon, and as often and as long, as suitable.

Because he had less distance to travel, Kayman arrived at the laboratories just behind Roger Torraway. They got out together, turned their cars over to the parking system and went up to the briefing room in the same elevator.

Deputy Director T. Gamble de Bell. As he prepared to juice up key personnel at the morning briefing, the cyborg was thirty meters away, spread-eagled face down and nude. On Mars he would eat only low-residue food and not much of that. On Earth it was thought necessary to keep his eliminatory system at least minimally functional, in spite of the difficulties the changes in skin and metabolism produced. Hartnett was glad for the food, but hated the enemas.

The project director was a general. The science chief was a distinguished biophysicist who had worked with Wilkins and Pauling; twenty years back he had stopped doing science and started doing figureheading, because that was where the rewards were. Neither had much to do with the work of the labs themselves, only with liaison between the operating people and those shadowy outside figures who worked the money switch.

For the nitty-gritty of daily routine, it was the deputy director who did the work. This early in the morning, he already had a sheaf of notes and reports, and he had read them.

“Scramble the picture,” he ordered from the lectern, not looking up. On the monitor above him Willy Hartnett’s grotesque profile broke up into a jackstraw bundle of lines, then turned into snow, then rebuilt itself into its proper features. (Only the head showed. The people in the briefing room could not see what indignity Willy was suffering, though most of them knew well enough. It was on the daily sked sheet.) The picture was no longer in color. The scan was coarser now, and the image less steady. But it was now security-safe (on the chance that some spy had tapped the closed circuit), and in portraying Hartnett the quality of the picture made, after all, very little difference.

“All right,” said the deputy director harshly, “you heard Dash last night. He didn’t come here to get your votes, he wants action. So do I. I don’t want any more screw-ups like the photoreceptor crap.”

He turned a page. “Morning progress report,” he read. “Commander Hartnett is functioning well in all systems, with three exceptions. First, the artificial heart does not respond well to prolonged exercise at low temperatures. Second, the CAV system receives poorly in frequencies higher than medium blue — I’m disappointed in that one, Brad,” he interpolated, looking up at Alexander Bradley, the expert in the perceptual systems of the eye. “You know we’re locked into UV capability on that. Third, communications links. We had to admit to that one in front of the President last night. He didn’t like it, and I didn’t like it. That throat mike doesn’t work. Effectively we don’t have voice link at Mars-normal pressure, and if we don’t come up with a solve we’ll have to go back to plain visual systems. Eighteen months down the drain.”

He glanced around the room and settled on the heart man. “All right. What about the circulation?”

“It’s the heat build-up,” Fineman said defensively. “The heart is functioning perfectly. You want me to design it for ridiculous conditions? I could, but it would be eight feet high. Fix up the thermal balance. The skin closes up at low temperatures and won’t transmit. Naturally the oxygen level in the blood drops, and naturally the heart speeds up. That’s what it’s supposed to do. What do you want? Otherwise he’ll go into syncope, maybe short-change the brain on 02. Then what’ve you got?”

From high on the wall of the room the cyborg’s face looked on impassively. He had changed position (the enema was over, the bedpan had been removed, he was now sitting). Roger Torraway, not very interested in a discussion that did not in any way involve his specialty, was gazing at the cyborg thoughtfully. He wondered what old Willy thought, hearing himself talked about that way. Roger had gone to the trouble of requisitioning the private psychological studies on Hartnett because of curiosity on that point, but they hadn’t been very informative. Roger was pretty sure he knew why. All of them had been so tested and retested that they had acquired considerable skill in answering test questions the way the examiners wanted them answered. By now nearly everyone in the labs must have come to do that, either by design or simply as a trained-in reflex. They would make marvelous poker players, he thought; smiling, he remembered poker games with Willy. Covertly he winked at the cyborg and gave him a thumbs-up. Hartnett did not respond. It was impossible to tell, from those faceted ruby eyes, what he saw.

“—we can’t change the skin again,” the integuments man was arguing. “There’s already a weight penalty. If we put in any more sensor-actors he’ll feel like he’s wearing a wet-suit all the time.”

Surprisingly, a rumble from the monitor. The cyborg spoke: “What theee hell do you think it feeeelsss layk now?”

A beat of silence, as everyone in the room remembered it was a living person they were talking about. Then the skin man insisted: “All the more reason. We’d like to fine it down, simplify it, get some of the weight off. Not complicate it.”

The deputy director raised his hand. “You two get together,” he ordered the opponents. “Don’t tell me what you can’t do — I’m telling you what we have to do. Now you, Brad. What about that vision cutoff?”

Alex Bradley said cheerily, “Under control. I can fix. But listen, Will, I’m sorry, but it means another implant. I see what’s wrong. It’s in the retinal mediation system; it’s filtering the extra frequencies. The system’s all right, but—”

“Then make it work,” said the deputy director, glancing at the clock. “How about the communications foul-up?”

“Talk to respiration,” said the hardware man. “If they give us a little more retained air, Hartnett can get some voice. The electronics systems are fine, there’s just nothing for them to carry.”

“Impossible!” shouted the lung man. “You’ve only left us five hundred cc’s of space now! He uses that in ten minutes. I’ve gone over the drill with him a hundred times to practice conserving it—”

“Can’t he just whisper?” asked the deputy director. Then, as the communications man began hauling out frequency-response curves, he added, “Work it out, will you? All the rest of you, looks good. But don’t let up.” He closed the notes into their plastic folder and handed it to his assistant. “That’s that,” he said. “Now let me get to the important part.”

He waited for them to settle down. “The reason the President was here last night is that a launch target has been approved. Friends, we are now on real time.”

“When?” cried a voice.

The deputy went on: “A.S.A.P. We’ve got to complete this job — and by that, friends, I mean complete it: get Hartnett up to optimum performance so that he can actually live on Mars — no back to the workshops if something goes wrong — in time for the launch window next month. Launch time is set for oh eight hundred hours on twelve November. That gives us forty-three days, twenty-two hours and some odd minutes. No more.”

There was a second’s pause, then a rush of voices. Even the cyborg’s expression visibly changed, though no one could have said in what direction.

The deputy director continued: “That’s only part of it. The date is fixed, it can’t be changed, we have to meet it; now I want to tell you why. Lights, please.”

The chamber lights dimmed down, and the deputy’s deputy, without waiting for a signal, projected a slide on the end wall of the room where all could see it, even the cyborg in his distant cell. It displayed a crosshatched chart, with a broad black line growing diagonally upward toward a red bar. In bright orange letters at the top it was marked MOST SECRET. EYES ONLY.

“Let me explain what you’re looking at,” said the deputy director. “The black diagonal is a composite of twenty-two trends and indices, ranging from the international credit balance to the incidence of harassment of American tourists by government officials abroad. The measure is of probability of war. The red bar at the top is marked ‘O.H.,’ which I can tell you stands for ‘Outbreak of Hostilities.’ It is not certainty. But the statistics people tell us that when the upper limit is reached there is a point-nine probability of war within six hours, and as you can see, we are moving toward it.”

The noise had stopped. The room was crypt-still. Finally one voice inquired, “What’s the time scale?”

“The back data covers thirty-five years,” said the deputy director. There was some easing — at least the white space at the top would have to be some months, not minutes.

Then Kathleen Doughty asked, “Does it say anywhere in there who it is we’re going to be at war with?”

The deputy director hesitated, then said carefully, “No, that is not included in the chart, but I think we can all form our own guesses. I don’t mind giving you mine. If you’ve been reading the papers you know that the Chicoms have been talking about the wonders of increased food production they could bring the world by applying Sinkiang Province farming techniques to the Australian outback. Well, no matter what that quisling bunch in Canberra are willing to agree to, I feel pretty sure that this administration is not going to let the Chinks move in. Not if they want to keep my vote, anyway.” After a moment, he added, “That’s just personal opinion, off the record; do not include it in the minutes of this meeting. I don’t know any official answer, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did. All I know is what you know now. The trendline forecasts look pretty sour. Now they show nuclear escalation probabilities peaking pretty fast. We’ve got a date for it. The curve continued shows the point-nine probability in less than seven years.

“Which means,” he added, “that if we don’t have a viable Mars colony by then, we may not live to have it ever.”

Alexander Bradley, B.Sc., E.E., M.D., D.Sc., Lt. Col. USMCR (Ret.). While Bradley was leaving the conference and changing from the expression of concern he had worn for the briefing to the more natural open-faced jollity he showed the world, the cyborg was down-pressuring for the Mars-normal tank. His monitors were somewhat concerned. Although they could not read emotion from his face, they could from his heart, breath and vital signs, as telemetered constantly to them, and it appeared to them that he was in some sort of up-tight state. They proposed delaying the test, but he refused angrily. “Don’t you know there’sss a war on, almosssst?” he demanded in shrill tones, and would not answer when they spoke to him again. They decided to continue with the tests, but to recheck his psych profile as soon as they were completed.

When Alexander Bradley was ten years old he lost his father and his left eye. The Sunday after Thanksgiving, the family was driving back from church. It had turned cold. The morning dew had frozen, impalpably thin and slick, in a film on the road. Brad’s father was driving with great care, but there were cars in front of him, cars behind him, cars in the other half of the two-lane road going in the other direction; he was constrained to keep to a certain speed, and he was short in his answers when the rest of the family said anything to him. He was concerned, but he was not concerned enough. When the disaster came he could do nothing to avert it. To Brad, sitting beside his father in the front seat, it looked as though a station wagon coming toward them a hundred yards away turned out, slowly and calmly, as though it were making a left turn. But there was no road there for it to turn into. Brad’s father stepped on the brake and held it. Their car slowed and slid. And for some seconds the boy sat watching the other car sliding sidewise toward them, themselves skidding gently and inevitably toward it. It was stately and deliberate, and inevitable. No one said anything, not Brad, not his father, not Brad’s mother in the back seat. No one did anything, except to hold their rigid poses as though they were actors in a National Traffic Council tableau. The father sat silent and erect at the wheel, staring concentratedly at the other car. The driver of the other vehicle looked wide-eyed and inquiringly toward them over his shoulder. Neither moved until they hit. Even on the ice the friction was slowing them, and they could not have been moving at a combined velocity of much more than twenty-five miles an hour. It was enough. Both drivers were killed — Brad’s father impaled, the other man decapitated. Brad and his mother, though they were wearing their safety belts, suffered fractures, cuts and bruises as well as internal injuries; and she lost the flexure of her left wrist forever, while her son lost his eye.

Twenty-three years later Brad still dreamed about it as though it had just happened. In his sleep it scared him witless, and he awakened sweaty and crying and gasping for breath.

It was not all loss. He had discovered that considerable advantages had been bought at the cost of an eye. Item, there was the insurance, on the life of his father and on the maiming of everyone concerned. Item, the injury had kept him out of the Army, and had permitted him to join the Marine Corps in an essentially civilian capacity when he wanted field experience in his specialty. Item, it had given him an acceptable excuse for avoiding the stupider risks and more tiresome obligations of adolescence. He never had to prove his courage in violent sports and always was excused from whatever parts of gym he most detested.

Biggest item of all, it gave him an education. Under the Aid to Handicapped Children provisions of his state’s welfare system, it had paid his way through school, college and graduate school. It had given him four degrees and turned him into one of the world’s greatest experts on the perceptual systems of the eye. On balance, it was a favorable transaction. Even adding in the negative factor of a mother who had spent the remaining ten years of her life in some pain and a good deal of shortness of temper, it was worthwhile.

Brad had wound up on the Man Plus project because he was the best they could get. He had chosen to work for the Marine Corps, because nowhere better could one find experimental subjects prepared by shell, claymore and bolo than in the field hospitals of Tanzania, Borneo and Ceylon. That work had been noted in high echelons of the military. They had not accepted Brad, they had drafted him.

What he was not sure of was that Man Plus was the best he could get. Other recruits had been dragged into the space program by glamour or appeals to duty. It wasn’t at all like that with Bradley. As soon as he had grasped what the man from Washington was driving at, the implications and opportunities spread out before him. It was a new track. It meant abandoning some plans, deferring others. But he could see where it would lead: say, three years helping to develop the optic systems of the cyborg. A world reputation coming out of it. Then he could quit the program and enter the limitless lush pastures of private practice. One hundred and eight Americans per hundred thousand had essentially total loss of function in one or both eyes. It added up to better than three hundred thousand prospective patients, every one of whom would want the best man in the field to treat him.

Working on the Man Plus program would stamp him the best man in his field at once. He could have a clinic of his own before he was forty. Not big. Just big enough to be supervised personally in every detail by him, and run by a staff of juniors trained by him and working under his direction. It would run to, oh, maybe five or six hundred patients a year — a fraction of 1 percent of the prospects. Which fraction of 1 percent would he accept? At least half of them would come from those most solvent and most willing to pay. Also, of course, charity cases. At least a hundred of them a year, everything free, even their bedside phones. While the several hundred who could pay would pay a lot. The Bradley Clinic (already it sounded as time-honored and proper as “Menninger” in his ears) would be a model for medical services all over the world, and it would make him one hell of a lot of money.

It was not Bradley’s fault that the three years had extended themselves past five. It wasn’t even his part of the program that caused the delays. Or not most of them, anyway. In any event, he was still young. He would leave the program with thirty good working years ahead of him — unless he chose to retire earlier, perhaps keeping a consultancy and a stock arrangement at the Bradley Clinic. And there were other advantages to working in the space program, in that so many of his associates had married such attractive women. Bradley had no interest in getting married, but he very much liked having wives.

Back in the seven-room laboratory suite where he ruled, Brad kicked ass on enough of his subordinates to insure that the new retinal mediation link would be ready for transplant within the week, and glanced at his watch. It was not yet eleven. He dialed Roger Torraway on the intercom and got him after a delay. “How about lunch, Rog? I want to go over this new implant with you.”

“Oh, too bad, Brad. I wish I could. But I’m going to be in the tank with Will Hartnett for at least the next three hours. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Talk to you then,” said Brad cheerfully, and hung up. He was not surprised; he had already checked Torraway’s schedule. But he was pleased. He told his secretary that he would be leaving for an outside conference and then lunch, and would be back after two, then ordered his car. He fed it the coordinates for the corner of the block where Roger Torraway lived. Where Dorrie Torraway lived.