'But we let him go swimming,' sighed her mother, looking around the crowded room. It was she, not Locille, who first saw the nurse coming towards them through the crowd, and she must have known as soon as Locille, from the look on the nurse's face, what the message was that she had for them.
'He was the tenth in my ward today,' whispered the nurse, looking for a private place to tell them and not finding it. 'He never regained consciousness.'
Cornut walked out of the residence, blinking. It was morning. 'Nice day,' he said politely to Jillson, beside him. Jillson nodded. He was pleased with Cornut. The kid wasn't going to give them any trouble.
As they walked Jillson 'shouted' in Cornut's mind. It was hard with these half-baked telepaths, he sighed; but it was part of his job. He was the executioner. He took Cornut's elbow - bodily contact helped a little, not much -and reminded him what he was supposed to do. You need to die. You'll kill yourself.
'Oh, yes,' said Cornut aloud. He was surprised. He'd promised, hadn't he? He bore no resentment for the beating. He understood that it had a purpose; the more dazed, the more exhausted he was, the surer their control of him. He had no objection at all to being under the control of four ancient immortals, since - he was.
You die, Cornut, but what difference does it make? Today, tomorrow, fifty years from now. It's all the same.
'That's right,' Cornut agreed politely. He was not very interested, the subject had been thoroughly covered, all night long. He noticed absently that there was a considerable crowd around the Med Centre. The whole campus seemed somehow uneasy.
They crossed under the shadow of the Administration Building and circled around it, towards Math Tower.
You will die, you know, 'shouted' Jillson. One day the world will wake up and no Cornut. Put a stethoscope to his poor chest, no heart beats. The sound of a beating heart that you have heard every day of your life will never be heard again. Cornut was embarrassed. These things were true; he did not mind being told them; but it was certainly rather immature of Jillson to take such evident pleasure in them. His thoughts came with a sort of smirk, like an adolescent gloating over a dirty picture.
The brain turns into jelly, chanted Jillson gleefully. The body turns into slime. He licked his lips, hot-eyed.
Cornut looked about him, anxious to change the subject. 'Oh, look,' he said. 'Isn't that Sergeant Rhame?'
Jillson pounded on: The hangnail on your thumb that hurts now will dissolve and rot and moulder. Not even the pain will ever be thought of by any living human again. Your bedgirl, is there anything you put off telling her? You put it off too long, Cornut.
'It is Sergeant Rhame. Sergeant!'
Damn, crashed a thought in Cornut's mind; but Jillson was smiling, smiling. 'Hello, Sergeant,' he said with his voice, his mind raging.
Cornut would have helped Jillson along if he had known how, but his half-dazed condition robbed him of enterprise. Too bad, he thought consolingly, hoping that Jillson would pick up the thought. I know St Cyr ordered you to stay with me until I was dead, but don't worry. I'll kill myself. I promise.
Sergeant Rhame was talking gruffly to Jillson about the mob at Med Centre. Cornut wished Rhame would go away. He understood that Rhame was a danger to the immortals; they could not be involved, with the same people, in too many violent deaths. Rhame had investigated the death of Master Carl at Jillson's hands; he could not now be allowed to investigate even the suicide of Master Cornut, when he had seen Jillson with him going to his death. Jillson would have to leave him now. Too bad. It was so right, Cornut thought, that he should die for the sake of preserving the safety of the immortals, as they were the future of humanity. He knew this; they had told him so themselves.
A word caught his attention: '—since the sickness began they've been mobbing every hospital,' said Sergeant Rhame to Jillson, waving at the mob before Med Centre.
'Sickness?' asked Cornut, diverted. He stared at the policeman. It was as though he had said, I've got to get some garlic, there are vampires loose tonight. Sickness was a relic of the dark ages. You had a headache or a queasy stomach, yes, but you went to the clinic and the diagnosticon did the rest.
Rhame grumbled, 'Where've you been, Master Cornut?
Nearly a thousand deaths in this area alone. Mobs seeking immunization. What they were calling Virus Gamma. It's really smallpox, they think.'
'Smallpox?' Even more fantastic! Cornut knew the word only as an archeological relic.
'Accidents all over the city,' said Rhame, and Cornut thought suddenly of the crash he had seen. 'Fever and rash and - oh, I don't know the symptoms. But it's fatal. The medics don't seem to have a cure.'
'Me disfella smellim,' said a voice from behind Rhame. 'Him spoilim fes distime. Plantim manyfella pox.' It was one of the aboriginals, quietly observing while Rhame's police erected barricades in front of their enclosure. 'Plantim mefella Mary,' he added sadly.
Rhame said: 'Understand any of it? It's English, if you listen close. Pidgin. He says they know about smallpox. I think he said his wife died of it.'
'Plantim mefella Mary,' agreed the aboriginal.
Rhame said, 'Unfortunately, I think he's right. Looks like your Field Expedition brought a lot of trouble back with it; the focus of infection seems to vector from these people. Look at their faces.' Cornut looked; the broad, dark cheeks were waffled with old pitted scars. 'So we're trying to keep the mob from making trouble here,' said Sergeant Rhame, 'by putting a fence around them.'
Cornut was even more incredulous than before. Mob violence?
It was not really his problem ... since he would have no more problems in the world. He nodded politely to Rhame, conspiratorially to Jillson, and moved on towards Math Tower. The aborigine yelled something after him - 'Waitimup mefella Masatura-san, he speak you!' - it sounded like. Cornut paid no attention.
Jillson 'yelled' after him too. Don't forget! You must die! Cornut turned and nodded. Of course he had to die. It was only right....
But it was difficult, all the same.
Fortunately Locille was not in the room. Cornut felt, and quelled a swift reeling sense of horror at the thought of losing her. It was only an emotion, and he was its master.
Probably the pithecanthropus had had similar emotions, he thought, casting about for a convenient way to die. It was not as easy as it looked.
He made sure his door was locked, thought for a moment, and decided to treat himself to a farewell drink. He found a bottle, poured, toasted the air and said aloud, 'To the next species.' Then he buckled down to work.
The idea of dying is never far from the mind of any mortal, but Cornut had never viewed it as anything up close in the foreground of his future. It was curiously alarming. Everybody did it, he reassured himself. (Well, almost everybody.) Babies did it. Old men fouled themselves, sighed and did it. Neurotics did it because of an imagined insult, or because of fear. Brave men did it in war. Virgins did it as the less undesirable alternative to a sultan's seraglio, so said the old stories. Why did it seem so hard?
As Cornut was a methodical man, he sat down at his desk and began to make a list, headed:
MEANS OF DEATH
1. Poison.
2. Slashed wrists.
3. Jumping from window. (Or bridge.)
4. Electrocution ...
He paused. Electrocution? It didn't sound so bad, especially considering that he had already tried most of the others, nearly. It would be nice to try something new. He poured himself another drink to think about it, and began to hum. He was feeling quite peaceful.
'It's only right that I should die,' he said comfortably. 'Naturally. Are you listening, Jillson?' He couldn't tell, of course. But probably they were.