“Your possessions to you will be later brought. Go!” Tukolom's anger and frustration were not overt. His face was suffused with red.
There was not the least physical or philosophical resemblance between Tukolom and Maestro Valdi, yet at the moment Killashandra was reminded of her former teacher. She turned her back on Tukolom and followed her guides to the ramp. Just as she emerged from the corridor, she heard Tukolom peremptorily calling for attention. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw that every head was turned in his direction. Once again, she had made a major exit without an audience.
CHAPTER 6
It was bad enough to be whisked away as if she'd committed a crime, but the meditechs kept asking if she felt faint or hot or cold, as if she was negligent when she denied any physical discomfort. Therefore, she could scarcely admit to a sense of vitality she had never previously experienced, to the fact that everything about her, even their plain green tunics, had taken on a new luster, that her fingers twitched to touch, her ears vibrated to minute sounds. Most of all, she wanted to shout her exultation in octaves previously impossible for the human voice.
The extreme anticlimax came when the chief meditech, a graceful woman with dark hair braided into an elaborate crown, wanted Killashandra to submit to the physical scanner.
“I don't need a scanner. I have never felt so well!”
“The symbiont can be devious, my dear Killashandra, and only the scanner can tell us that. Do please lie down. You know it doesn't take long, and we really need an accurate picture of your present physical well-being.”
Killashandra stifled her sudden wish to scream and submitted. She was in such euphoria that the claustrophobic feel of the helmet didn't bother her, nor did the pain threshold nerve jab do more than make her giggle.
“Well, Killashandra Ree,” Antona said, absently smoothing a strand into her coronet, “you are the lucky one.” Her smile as she assisted Killashandra to her feet was the warmest the young woman had seen from a full Guild member. “We'll just make certain this progress has no set backs. Come with me and I'll show you your room.”
“I'm all right? I thought there'd be some fever.”
“There may be fever in your future,” Antona said, smiling encouragingly as she guided Killashandra down a wide hall.
Killashandra hesitated, wrinkling her nose against the odors that assailed her now: dank sweat, urine, feces, vomit, and as palpable as the other stenches, fear.
“Yes,” Antona said, observing her pause, “I expect it'll take time for you to become accustomed to augmented olfactory senses. Fortunately, that's not been one of my adaptations. I can still smell, would have to in my profession, but odors don't overwhelm me. I've put you at the back, away from the others, Killashandra. You can program the air conditioner to mask all this.”
Noises, too, assaulted Killashandra. Despite thick sound deadening walls, she recognized one voice.
“Rimbol!” She twisted to the right and was opening the door before Antona could stop her.
The young Scartine, his back arched in a convulsion, was being held to the bed by two strong meditechs. A third was administering a spray to Rimbol's chest. In the two days since she had seen him, he had lost weight, turned an odd shade of soft yellow, and his face was contorted by the frenzy that gripped his body.
“Not all have an easy time,” Antona said, taking her by the arm.
“Easy time!” Killashandra resisted Antona's attempt to draw her from the room. “The fax said satisfactory. Is this condition considered satisfactory?”
Antona regarded Killashandra. «Yes, in one respect, his condition is satisfactory – he's maintaining his own integrity with the symbiont. A massive change is occurring physically: an instinctive rejection on his part, a mutation of the symbiont's. The computers prognosis gives Rimbol an excellent chance of making a satisfactory adjustment.»
“But . . .” Killashandra couldn't drag her eyes from Rimbol's writhing body. “Will I go like that, too?”
Antona ducked her head, hiding her expression, an evasion that irritated Killashandra.
“I don't think that you will, Killashandra, so don't fret. The results of the latest scan must be analyzed, but my initial reading indicates a smooth adaptation. You'll be the first to know otherwise. Scant consolation, perhaps, but you would barge in here.”
Killashandra ignored the rebuke. “Have you computed how long he'll be like that?”
“Yes, another day should see him over the worst of the penetration.”
“And Jezerey?”
Antona looked blankly at Killashandra. «Oh, the girl who collapsed in the hangar yesterday? She's fine – I amend that.» Antona smiled conciliatorily. «She is suffering from a predictable bout of hyperthermia at the moment and is as comfortable as we can make her.»
“Satisfactory, in fact?” Killashandra was consumed by bitterness for that misleading category but allowed Antona to lead her out of Rimbol's room.
“Satisfactory in our terms and experience, yes. There are degrees, you must understand, of severity with which the symbiont affects the host and with which the host rejects the symbiont.” Antona shrugged. “If we knew all the ramifications and deviations, it would be simple to recruit only those candidates with the requisite chromosomes. It isn't that simple, though our continuous research gets closer and closer to defining exact parameters.” She gave Killashandra another of her warm smiles. “We're much better at selection than we used to be.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to know how lucky you are. And to hope that you'll continue so fortunate. I work generally with self treating patients, since I find the helpless depress me. Here we are.”
Antona opened a door at the end of the corridor and started to retrace her steps. Killashandra caught her arm.
“But Rimbol? I could see him?”
Another expressive shrug. “If you wish. Your belongings will be along shortly. Go settle in,” she said more kindly. “Program the air conditioner and rest. There's nothing more to be done now. I'll inform you of the analysis as soon as I have the results.”
“Or I'll inform you,” Killashandra said with wry humor.
“Don't dwell on the possibility,” Antona advised her.
Killashandra didn't. The room, the third she'd had in as many weeks, was designed for ease in dealing with patients, though all paraphernalia was absent. The lingering odors of illness seeped in from the hall, and the room seemed to generate antiseptic maskers. It took Killashandra nearly an hour to find a pleasant counter odor with which to refresh her room. In the process, she learned how to intercept fax updates on the conditions of the other patients. Never having been ill or had occasion to visit a sick friend, she didn't have much idea of what the print out meant, but as the patients were designated by room number, she could isolate Rimbol's. His monitor showed more activity than the person in the next room, but she couldn't bring herself to find out who his neighbor was.
That evening, Antona visited her room, head at a jaunty angle, the warm smile on her face.
“The prognosis is excellent. There'll be no fever. We are keeping you on a few days just to be on the safe side. An easy transition is not always a safe one.” A chime wiped the smile from her face. “Ah, another patient. Excuse me.”
As soon as the door closed, Killashandra turned on the medical display. At the bottom, a winking green line warned of a new admission. That was how Killashandra came to see Borton being wheeled into the facility. The following day, Shillawn was admitted. The fax continued to display “satisfactory” after everyone's condition. She supposed she agreed, having become fascinated with the life-signal graphs until the one on Rimbol's neighbor unexpectedly registered nothing at all.