The cardiac redcart team was taken off alert, as was the emergency surgery unit. Except for security patrols, by degree and echelon the remainder of the Fountain Compound stood down, catching their first rest in weeks. Meanwhile Wolfe and Beatrice and Emilio Barrola waited to see what would happen next, watching at Peter’s bedside in overlapping shifts, never daring to expect more miracles than they had already been granted, and always prepared for the worst. But the miracles kept coming. Every day. Indeed, Peter’s brain appeared to be thriving in its new environment. The waves grew in vigor until they approximated normal human deep-sleep consciousness. Electrodes taped to his eyelids gave evidence of REM, a strong indication that he was seeing images in something approximating a dream state. He was alive and sleeping well, in fact. But there was a difference, a crucial difference. When morning came, he didn’t open his eyes. Morning after morning.
After five days of this, Wolfe began to show impatience. “He should be waking by now,” he grumbled. Seeing the blood drain from Beatrice’s face, he instantly regretted having said anything at all. Like Peter, whose deputy he had become, he abhorred causing her pain. They tried mild injections of stimulants, without results. They tried loud noises: nothing. They’ touched him, they slapped him. Nothing. Beatrice read to him from Lewis Carroll, her favorite author and from Thomas Pynchon, who was Peter’s. Nothing. She described every hotel they’d stayed in on vacation, and, when Wolfe was out of the room, highlights of their erotic life together. Nothing. They tried playing Haydn, for whom Peter had cultivated a preference over Mozart and consequently adored. They tried Ornette Coleman, whom Peter particularly detested. Nothing.
“How long are you going to wait?” Beatrice asked, as one week turned into three, and worry moved into despair. “I don’t consider it my decision,” Wolfe answered prudently. He knew she was testing his loyalty, as if sensing, beyond her single-minded focus on Peter’s welfare, that he as head of the entire project had other fish to fry. But the fact was he had at the moment no other experimental subjects on whom to practice, and no wish to think of anything else but the survival of this key organism lying before him. “You’re thinking of pulling the plug on this, aren’t you?” she asked, eyeing him as would a creature with its back to the wall. He looked at her with as much kindness as he could. “Beatrice. To begin with, there’s no plug to pull. To withhold nourishment, at this point, given the vitality of his brain waves, could be construed as actionable-” “Freddy,” said Beatrice, wincing as she turned away from Peter’s body, from the humming, blinking monitors, “You’re the heartless one, not Henderson.” “I’m agreeing with you,” Wolfe protested. “He’s completely viable and we’re not going to abandon him in any way!” “Although,” a voice piped up behind them. It was Alex Davies, who had taken Barrola’s shift while the surgeon was off doing big-ticket surgery on the mainland. “Who’d bring the malpractice suit, when you think about it?” “Alex,” said Wolfe gently, “that will do.” Alex looked at Peter and rubbed his chin. “Maybe he’s afraid to wake up,” Alex said, ignoring the rush of blood to his grandfather’s face. “What do you mean, afraid?” said Beatrice tightly “Don’t encourage him,” said Wolfe.
“Afraid of what?” Beatrice persisted.
Alex passed a knuckle under his nose. “Afraid of facing the finer implications, you know what I’m saying? I would be. He was supposed to die, he was ready to die, and then you guys made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.” He looked at them and grinned, guileless. “Maybe he’s afraid to rejoin you two. God knows what you’ll ask in return.” They glared at him.
He threw up his hands. “Just being whimsical. Sorry.” There was a vein bulging on Wolfe’s forehead by now as he fixed Alex with a laser eye. “Alex,” said Wolfe, “you’re free to go. Now.” “Just a thought,” said Alex and shrugged. He gave a friendly wave and walked out the door. “Anyone want coffee?” He stopped and looked back, then shrugged again and disappeared. Beatrice turned back to Wolfe.
“Maybe Alex has a point,” she said.
“I’m not sure I heard any point,” Wolfe grumbled. “Then what’s the answer? Why isn’t Peter coming out of his coma?” “I don’t have an answer,” he declared, acknowledging to himself that this woman was getting on his nerves. “That’s not the right answer!” Beatrice shouted back at him. “I want my husband back!” Wolfe blanched. Was it possible, what he suddenly’ found himself suspecting-that in some perverse and jealous chamber of his soul, he didn’t want Peter to wake up? Absurd, he thought. If Peter dies, I’ve failed. The rest is childish nonsense. “There’s no right or wrong here,” he pleaded with her, feeling off-balance and impotent. “Obviously we’ll do everything we can. Considering all we’ve got invested, to do less would be madness.” “Oh, I see,” said Beatrice coldly. “Now it’s a money issue-” “Of course that’s not what I meant,” he protested. “What we’ve all got invested-emotionally, spiritually-Peter especially-Peter’s life is of paramount importance here-that goes without saying.” “No, Freddy, That never goes without saying. Ever.” It was said in cold fury and then she was out the door. Wolfe listened to her footsteps echo down the hall, and in a rare spasm of self-reproach cursed himself for his tactlessness. All that hard-earned gratitude and affectionwere they going up in smoke? Don’t be an idiot, he told himself. He turned again to Peter, and vowed inwardly that he would win it all back as soon as Peter came around. Then we’ll see who owes what to whom. “Right, Peter?” he said aloud. On the monitor, the EEG seemed to surge for an instant, as if in reply. Good Lord, thought Wolfe to himself, you’re getting as flaky as your grandson. And, thinking of Alex, he hurried out of the room to tell the little bastard never to embarrass him in front of Beatrice again. 7
VIEOUES ISLAND
Beatrice had moved into Peter’s room; she no longer trusted anyone else to keep watch. Wolfe’s cavalier attitude still rankled, and Alex Davies seemed to be avoiding her. She caught up with him finally at a table in the base cafeteria. He made some polite inquiries about Peter’s condition, although she suspected he already knew. She decided to be blunt. “What’s going on between you two?” she asked him. “What do you mean?” said Alex disingenuously. “You know what I mean. You and your grandfather.” Alex shrugged. “The usual.” “He dotes on you,” Beatrice declared gently. Alex let out a laugh. “Yeah, maybe. Like the way Lear dotes on the Fool.” “You’re anything but a fool, Alex.”
“Protective coloration,” agreed Alex with a smile, and poked at his food. “Do you think Frederick still believes in the project?” “You mean in Peter Jance?”
This kid was always a step or two ahead of where she expected him to be. “All right,” she said. “Do you think he’s in it for the long haul with Peter? Has he confided in you?” “As far as he can, I suppose,” Alex said. “He’ll stick in there with Dr. Jance. It’s a matter of pride, if nothing else. Besides, science must go on, right?” “Perhaps everyone deserves to live a little longer. Maybe it would help advance the acquisition of wisdom.” She felt cold inside. Not even she believed that. Alex smiled thinly. “Scientists first-that was always how he sold it. And with the implication, of course, that military leaders came in a close second. That was because he needed them for funding, by the way, not because he respects them.” She looked at the kid, and saw in his eyes all the hidden doubts she had about the project herself. Just for an instant. It was far too threatening to the necessary survival of her husband to question it that way. “I’m surprised,” she chided. “You don’t think it’s the government wanting the president to live in perpetuity?” Alex shook his head, taking her jest as a straight comment. “No. the military’s more powerful than any president-they’re around far longer, and they’ve got better security.” He grinned impishly. Was he serious, or putting her on? She didn’t know. “But eventually he’ll dump the military and look for private-sector funding-that’s where the real money is now. Corporations. They’ll pay through the nose for immortality, and they’ve got the deepest pockets.” She watched him. She still didn’t know. “What about artists? Philosophers?”
He just laughed. Then he leaned forward and said in a surprisingly earnest voice, “Peter’s the ticket. If he survives, the sky’s the limit. Grandpa will never give up on him, he can’t afford to.” Why wasn’t she comforted? Then she remembered the word. “If?” she asked. “Do you know something I don’t?” “When,” said Alex. “When. Peter survives. Listen,” he went on, as though reading her mind, “I don’t know anything you don’t. It’s just-” He let it drop. “What?”