He didn't know what was coming. He stood there like a starving animal about to be tossed some meat.
Maybe he was too good for Heller. Maybe I was being too smart. A little lingering infection or a wrong cell generating the wrong fluids might be just what Heller needed. But I had gone this far.
"I know," I said, "that you have begun a successful practice and that you would not be willing to be torn away from it or your friends or loving females . . . ."
"Professor! Please, please. I . . . I got to confess. I don't have any friends or loving females. If you want me to do something ..." Dinnerlessness talks loud. I was a bit sorry I had put such a high figure on the paper. But it was too late now.
I fumblingly, with age-palsied hands, found the contract.
"When the government asked for my recommendation, I told them that I could not honestly recommend until I had personally spoken with you." I seemed very doubtful. "You seem like a nice young man and it appears from the records that you are competent enough ..." I hesitated.
He was almost dying on his feet, so great was his anxiety. But that's the way these young fellows get – they are so used to standing up and getting examined that they get into perpetual hysteria about having to pass.
"It is not," I said, "always comfortable to be on some foreign strand, far from home. The air might be good, the local women attractive and compliant, the gravity fine, the food enticing; the pay might be good but, truly, there is nothing to spend it on; really, on such posts there is nothing to do but work with strange cases of complex problems and putter about in the hope of making some universe-shaking discovery." He groaned in near ecstasy. The vacuum he was setting up almost pulled the paper out of my hand.
"The drawback, in this case," I continued, "was the nature of the post – extreme secrecy. One breath of exposure and it could shake the whole Confederacy. It required a doctor who could end off his affairs quietly, attracting no attention, and simply fade from his present scene unremarked. The slightest secrecy breach would, of course, cancel the post!" Oh, he could be secret. The whole profession was built on it. He could fade. He could fade without a trace.
"And then there was the first case. The test case," I continued. "They said they were going to set up a test case and told me not to mention it. But amongst us professionals, I could not expose you to a test without informing you. I made that a condition. But they said that even the slightest hint, to the patient or to anyone, would cancel the contract." Oh, that was no problem! None at all!
"Now," I quavered, "do you think you could successfully introduce foreign objects undetectably along optical and hearing nerves? That's the test case." Oh, no trouble. Do it in his sleep!
"You might not like the contract," I quavered. I handed it over.
He snapped it out of my hand so fast it almost tore. I knew what it said. I had just typed it.
SECRET HUMANITARIAN SECTION GOVERNMENT OF VOLTAR KNOW ALL: As of this date, one PRAHD BITTLESTIFFENDER, Graduate Cellologist, is appointed CHIEF CELLOLOGIST to Sensitive Secret Station X.
His salary shall be FIVE THOUSAND CREDITS (C5,000) per year with all expenses paid.
After the successful completion of a test case, upon the outcome of which this contract is contingent, he shall thereafter proceed as ordered to the place ordered to perform the duties which will be ordered.
Signed: __________________ Authenticated: _____________ "Oh," he cried, scarcely daring to say more.
"Sign on the line there," I said. I gave him a pen and he raced over to his rickety desk and signed it. He found and stamped his identoplate on it.
I held out my hand and he reluctantly gave the contract back. I took the Professor Gyrant Slahb identoplate and put it on the "authenticated" line.
"Now there are some other things," I said. "I want you to make up two lists. The first is everything you will need to outfit a small, temporary hospital for one operation. The other is everything you will need for a small but complete hospital in a remote location that has no equipment, no supplies." Oh, there was nothing complex about that. He scribbled and scribbled. I will say this: he knew his business to a point where he didn't have to refer to a single text.
Finally, he was done and gave me the lists.
"Now," I said, "the person who will be in charge of you, the person whose orders you must follow, is named Officer Soltan Gris of the General Services. You must require that he show you his identoplate so you can be sure it is he as this is very secret work. He will approach you. You are not to contact him.
"Close up all of your affairs. Tell everyone that you are leaving for the back country of Flisten to work with a native tribe. Handle it so that you get no mail and need receive none.
"Then go to this address and wait. There is a charming lady there who will be happy to see you." Indeed she would be. She would also feed him up so he could last longer in bed!
"Some equipment is there," I continued. "But more will be sent. Officer Gris will show up with the test patient. Now I must warn you that Gris is a good enough fellow but in secret work he is an exacting taskmaster. He knows everything. In the service it is said he can even read minds. He is an absolute genius. If he finds that you have leaked anything at all about anything – even to the test patient – I fear he will be furious. He will be the one who gives you the copy of this contract. And he will do it only if you pass your test case. Understand now?" Oh, he understood.
"Well, you just remember," and I almost forgot to quaver, "that your whole employment continuance depends on you obeying Officer Gris and no one else." I softened my tone. "Actually he is a prince at heart. If you make him your friend, if you simply devote yourself utterly to satisfying his every slightest wish, you are fixed for life. He is a secret power in the government. One of their most brilliant assets." I realized I was getting carried away.
I got up. I tottered to the door. "Oh," I said, "one tiny favor more. Do you have an old coat, something you would not miss? It is terribly chilly this evening and I am nearly frozen." He tore the place apart. He found an ancient overcoat full of holes. It had his name inside the collar. He helped me put it over my shivering shoulders.
"I am so grateful," I said. "I shall see that it is returned."
"Oh, keep it, keep it!" he cried. He was rich beyond dreams. He could afford a whole wardrobe!
Actually, the Widow Tayl would probably give him some of her murdered husband's clothes. He was really set. For the moment.
He helped me totter down the exit steps and left me to wend my way through the garbage. Upstairs I could hear him whooping exultantly. And then I heard the shatter and bash of the breaking of already broken furniture. It was his celebrant idea of packing up and settling his affairs.
As I neared the airbus, I sensed somebody was observing me intently from around a pile of garbage but when I looked, the person ducked out of sight. It was nonsense, of course, that anybody would recognize me. I shrugged it off – just some thief being hopeful.
I flew back to the office where, using the handwriting on the lists, I could forge Prahd's suicide note and leave it and his false identoplate and old coat beside the River Wiel in a few days, to be found when he was safely gone to Blito-P3. Doctor Prahd Bittlestiffender was about to vanish forever from the Voltar Confederacy. The idiot. There is no "Secret Humanitarian Section." Nor any humanitarian actions either in this Empire. Wonderful what people will believe when they want to believe hard enough. Far be it from me to pay out five thousand credits a year for anything!