Of Death What Dreams

12

“How long it takes,” Goldblatt said half an hour later, “depends on a couple of things. First, how good the equipment is.” He slapped the curving metal case, like a streamlined coffin, that rested on a stand in the surprisingly clean and well-lit basement room. “And I’ve got the best. Private custom job, less than five years old, best circuitry a man could ask for—except no blanking circuit. You take it cold. That’s how I got it cheap.”

“How long?” Bailey repeated the question.

“Second, what we got to work with,” Goldblatt continued, unruffled. He rubbed his hands together. “Frankly, my friend, you offer a man a challenge.” He frowned happily at Bailey’s bare ribs, reached out to squeeze his thin arm above the elbow. “You look like about what we call a three: minimum normal range, about point 4 musculature, probably no better’n a five vascular rating, same for osteo—”

“I understand it’s a fast process,” Bailey said. “Can you do it in a week?”

The trainer’s mouth snapped open. He wagged his head in wonderment. “The ideas some people got,” he said. “Forget it, mister. A week? In a week maybe you can see the first results. What you think a Maxpo is, some kind of magic trick? It’s pain! Pain that will burn your heart out. Not every man can take it; not even most men. And frankly, you don’t look to me like one of the tough ones. Maybe better we talk a standard toning course, two weeks and you feel like a new man—”

“Maxpo or nothing,” Bailey said. “And in minimum time.”

“You know how it works, mister?” Goldblatt turned to the tank, poked a button. The top slid back, exposing a padded interior of complex shape, fitted with numerous wide web straps with polished buckles.

“The principle,” Bailey responded instantly, “is that of selective electronically triggered isometric and isotonic contraction, coupled with appropriately neuro-synaptic stimulation and coordinated internal physiochemical environmental control. The basal somatic rhythms are encoded, brought into a phased relationship, and—”

“You know plenty fancy words, bub, I’ll give you that,” Goldblatt said wonderingly. “But what it works out to is I put a micro-filament tap into your spinal cord, right where it leaves the skull. We use the trial-and-error method for coding the motor nerves. It hurts. When I finish, all I have to do is push a button and the muscle it’s wired to contracts—max contraction, more than you could trigger with the voluntary nervous system. Once I’ve got you wired, I slap you in the frame and strap you up rigid. The frame is articulated, so you get isotonic work along with the ’metrics. Then I work you over like one of them guys in a torture chamber, know what I mean? You’ll come out of it screaming for mercy, every muscle in your body yelling for help. You’ll turn black and blue all over. This goes on for a week. Then it gets worse.” He shook his head. “Like I said, not many fellows can take it.”

“How long?”

“Give yourself a break, mister. A few times a year I sell a tank job, not a max but just whatever somebody needs, like a demo player is slowing down, he needs toning up fast; or some of these specialty show people, after a long layoff. And even at that—”

“How many hours a day do I spend inside?”

“A day?” Goldblatt barked. “You work day and night—that’s if you’re talking minimum time. But that’s for lab cases, theory stuff—”

“We’ll test the theory.”

“You must be in some kind of hurry, mister.”

“That’s right. And we’re wasting time.”

Goldblatt nodded heavily. “It’s your bones that’ll get bent, my friend, not mine. All right, strip down and I’ll run you across the ’tab monitor and see what we got to work with.”