"And positive pressure in here? To keep out germs? Whose idea was that?"
"His." Babcock opened a chrome box on the wall and look out two surgical masks. "Here, put this on."
Voices came muffled from around the bend of the room. Sinescu looked with distaste at the white mask, then slowly put it over his head.
They stared at each other. "Germs," said Sinescu through the mask. "Is that rational?"
"All right, he can’t catch a cold or what have you, but think about it a minute. There are just two things now that could kill him. One is a prosthetic failure, and we guard against that; we’ve got five hundred people here, we check him out like an airplane. That leaves a cerebrospinal infection. Don’t go in there with a closed mind."
The room was large, part living room, part library, part workshop. Here was a cluster of Swedish-modern chairs, a sofa, coffee table; here a workbench with a metal lathe, electric crucible, drill press, parts bins, tools on wallboards; here a drafting table; here a free-standing wall of bookshelves that Sinescu fingered curiously as they passed. Bound volumes of project reports, technical journals, reference books; no fiction except for Fire and Storm by George Stewart and The Wizard of Oz in a worn blue binding. Behind the bookshelves, set into a little alcove, was a glass door through which they glimpsed another living room, differently furnished: upholstered chairs, a tall philodendron in a ceramic pot. "There’s Sam," Babcock said.
A man had appeared in the other room. He saw them, turned to call to someone they could not see, then came forward, smiling. He was bald and stocky, deeply tanned. Behind him, a small, pretty woman hurried up. She crowded through after her husband, leaving the door open. Neither of them wore a mask.
"Sam and Irma have the next suite," Babcock said. "Company for him; he’s got to have somebody around. Sam is an old air-force buddy of his, and besides, he’s got a tin arm.
The stocky man shook hands, grinning. His grip was firm and warm. "Want to guess which one?" He wore a flowered sport shirt. Both arms were brown, muscular and hairy, but when Sinescu looked more closely, he saw that the right one was a slightly different color, not quite authentic. Embarrassed, he said, "The left, I guess."
"Nope." Grinning wider, the stocky man pulled back his right sleeve to show the straps.
"One of the spin-offs from the project," said Babcock. "Myoelectric, servo-controlled, weighs the same as the other one. Sam, they about through in there?"
"Maybe so. Let’s take a peek. Honey, you think you could rustle up some coffee for the gentlemen?"
"Oh, why, sure." The little woman turned and darted back through the open doorway.
The far wall was glass, covered by a translucent white curtain. They turned the corner. The next bay was full of medical and electronic equipment, some built into the walls, some in tall black cabinets on wheels. Four men in white coats were gathered around what looked like an astronaut’s couch. Sinescu could see someone lying on it: feet in Mexican woven-leather shoes, dark socks, gray slacks. A mutter of voices.
"Not through yet," Babcock said. "Must have found something else they didn’t like. Let’s go out onto the patio a minute."
"Thought they checked him at night—when they exchange his blood, and so on…?"
"They do," Babcock said. "And in the morning, too." He turned and pushed open the heavy glass door. Outside, the roof was paved with cut stone, enclosed by a green plastic canopy and tinted-glass walls. Here and there were concrete basins, empty. "Idea was to have a roof garden out here, something green, but he didn’t want it. We had to take all the plants out, glass the whole thing in."
Sam pulled out metal chairs around a white table and they all sat down. "How is he, Sam?" asked Babcock.
He grinned and ducked his head. "Mean in the mornings."
"Talk to you much? Play any chess?"
"Not too much. Works, mostly. Reads some, watches the box a little." His smile was forced; his heavy fingers were clasped together and Sinescu saw now that the fingertips of one hand had turned darker, the others not. He looked away.
"You’re from Washington, that right?" Sam asked politely. "First time here? Hold on." He was out of his chair. Vague upright shapes were passing behind the curtained glass door. "Looks like they’re through. If you gentlemen would just wait here a minute, till I see." He strode across the roof. The two men sat in silence. Babcock had pulled down his surgical mask; Sinescu noticed and did the same.
"Sam’s wife is a problem," Babcock said, leaning nearer. "It seemed like a good idea at the time, but she’s lonely here, doesn’t like it—no kids—"
The door opened again and Sam appeared. He had a mask on, but it was hanging under his chin. "If you gentlemen would come in now."
In the living area, the little woman, also with a mask hanging around her neck, was pouring coffee from a flowered ceramic jug. She was smiling brightly but looked unhappy. Opposite her sat someone tall, in gray shirt and slacks, leaning back, legs out, arms on the arms of his chair, motionless. Something was wrong with his face.
"Well, now," said Sam heartily. His wife looked up at him with an agonized smile.
The tall figure turned its head and Sinescu saw with an icy shock that its face was silver, a mask of metal with oblong slits for eyes, no nose or mouth, only curves that were faired into each other… project." said an inhuman voice.
Sinescu found himself half bent over a chair. He sat down. They were all looking at him.
The voice resumed, "I said, are you here to pull the plug on the project." It was unaccented, indifferent.
"Have some coffee." The woman pushed a cup toward him.
Sinescu reached for it, but his hand was trembling and he drew it back. "Just a fact-finding expedition," he said.
"Bull. Who sent you—Senator Hinkel."
"That’s right."
"Bull. He’s been here himself; why send you? If you are going to pull the plug, might as well tell me." The face behind the mask did not move when he spoke; the voice did not seem to come from it.
"He’s just looking around, Jim," said Babcock.
"Two hundred million a year," said the voice, "to keep one man alive. Doesn’t make much sense, does it. Go on, drink your coffee."
Sinescu realized that Sam and his wife had already finished theirs and that they had pulled up their masks. He reached for his cup hastily.
"Hundred percent disability in my grade is thirty thousand a year. I could get along on that easy. For almost an hour and a half."
"There’s no intention of terminating the project," Sinescu said.
"Phasing it out, though. Would you say phasing it out."
"Manners, Jim," said Babcock.
"Okay. My worst fault. What do you want to know."
Sinescu sipped his coffee. His hands were still trembling. "That mask you’re wearing," he started.
"Not for discussion. No comment, no comment. Sorry about that, don’t mean to be rude; a personal matter. Ask me something—" Without warning, he stood up, blaring, "Get that damn thing out of here!" Sam’s wife’s cup smashed, coffee brown across the table. A fawn-colored puppy was sitting in the middle of the carpet, cocking its head, bright-eyed, tongue out.
The table tipped, Sam’s wife struggled up behind it. Her face was pink, dripping with tears. She scooped up the puppy without pausing and ran out. "I better go with her," Sam said, getting up.
"Go on; and, Sam, take a holiday. Drive her into Winnemucca, see a movie."
"Yeah, guess I will." He disappeared behind the bookshelf wall.
The tall figure sat down again, moving like a man; it leaned back in the same posture, arms on the arms of the chair. It was still. The hands gripping the wood were shapely and perfect but unreaclass="underline" there was something wrong about the fingernails. The brown, well-combed hair above the mask was a wig; the ears were wax. Sinescu nervously fumbled his surgical mask up over his mouth and nose. "Might as well get along," he said, and stood up.