OPERATION HIGH TIME
by Jacqueline Lichtenberg
                                                       I


Clad blissfully in my old shorts and sandals instead of the cover-every-inchcostume the Gens required at
their medical school, I headed outdoorsto soak up some Indian summer heat. I was glad nobody was
homewhen I got there. The privacy would let the resonant peace ofthe ranch heal my nerves before I
launched my attack on the RetainerLaws.
I paused in the kitchen, massaging my wrists and forearms, extendingand flexing all the tentacles and
trying to relieve the bruisedsoreness and tingling that still lingered twelve hours after sheddingmy retainers
at the Sime Territory border. At last, I'd receivedmy M.D. and was home, the place that had haunted my
dreams forthe last two years at New Harvard.
The ranch had always been our weekend retreat. We allowed nolife-powered services, preferring to use
mechanical door locks,a petro-chemical stove and heater, electrochemical lights, anda really ancient ice
box--no power just ice. We got along wellwithout hot running water and vigorously enforced our ban on
allpowered communications instruments, public and private.
It was a bubble of rustic isolation perfect for Noadron, thatvitally necessary Sime discipline that relieves
the tension ofconstant transfer denial demanded by life among the non-donorGens, and that's what I was
here for.
I went out the kitchen door onto the patio, letting the screendoor clatter lopsidedly shut behind me. The
single-floored, ramblingstructure was surrounded on two sides by the patio and its
roof-high,whitewashed wall. The third side was the garage; the whole backof the house was a glassed-in
sun porch with a view of an ancientpine forest.
I stood on the patio, luxuriating in the dry heat. Extendingmy grasping tentacles to the fullest, I jumped
and caught thebeam connecting the patio wall to the roof. I was shocked whenI had to support my
weight on my hands, the tentacles were soweakened by constant use of retainers.
Walking out into the yard, I looked back at the house with theperspective of years. It seemed to crouch
in the middle of ourten acres of rocky, virgin hills like some sort of invader, notreally a part of the
country.
With renewed purpose, I strode toward the back, bearing left awayfrom the pines, stepping carefully,
mindful of my bare toes. Five minutes later, lying among the summer-parched grasses ofmy favorite
hillside, I studied wisps of cloud roiling in stratosphericbreezes and relaxed into the vaulted infinity with no
field gradientother than my own to distract me.
Would it really be a good thing to walk among the Gen life-potentialfields unprotected by retainers? As a
QN-1 class channel, I wouldn'tbe bothered as much as a simple Q-class Sime, but still, I didrely on
retainers for comfort in the steep field potentials ofnon-Donors.
The Gens, the Generators, the normal humans, invented retainersabout four hundred years ago so that the
Sime mutants they capturedduring the Sime Wars could not attack and kill them by strippingthem of
life-energy. As contact developed into integration, anySime not wearing retainers was shot on sight.
Then the channels appeared. They were like the ordinary Simein every respect except that they could
take life-energy froma Gen without killing, and later transfer it to the ordinary Sime,satisfying his desire
for a kill.
Now many Gens donate life in return for the life-powered servicesonly Simes can provide, and the
penalty for not wearing retainersin Gen Territory is deportation to Sime Territory.
The time for change had arrived again.
I held up my right arm and extended the moist pink-gray laterals. Used only in life-transfer, but they loved
freedom and sunshine,not the confining and heavy retainers. I extended the two dorsaland two ventral
gripping tentacles, touching the tips of my fingers. By contrast, these were sinewy ropes with a smooth,
dry, ordinaryskin. Their strength and dexterity were the joy of Sime musiciansand artists everywhere
except in Gen Territory, where, needlesslyimmobilized in retainers, they became weak and clumsy.
I was determined to present my arguments and inventions to GrandpaDigen tonight. If I could convince
him that the time was rightto force the issue...
After dinner, Grandpa Digen and I sat alone on the sun porch watchingdarkness engulf the pine forest.
Aunt Clare was puttering inthe kitchen as women do, and nobody else was about. Cousin Dorienand his
family wouldn't come until later.
Grandpa Digen is really my great grandfather. A hundred and twentyis old even for a Sime, so I wanted
to broach the subject gentlyand keep the talk quiet.
"Did you hear about the Sime, Ray Bilton I think his namewas, who tripped on a crowded walkway a
few days ago and knockeda Gen into the path of a truck?"
"No, I didn't. What happened?"
"The Gen was hospitalized. The Gen police didn't hold Biltonresponsible, but the Sime investigation
turned up that he'd beenwearing retainers more than twelve hours. They blamed his carelessnesson the
cumulative effect of the pain and discomfort and let itgo at that."
"There ought to be a law against wearing retainers more thantwelve hours."
"I disagree. There ought not to be a law requiring retainerswhen they are not needed."
"I should live to see the day!"
"Well, you've lived to see the invention of revolutionary,comfortable retainers, so why not?"
"I have?" Grandpa was really interested now.
"I reached into my pocket and brought forth my ring. Itglittered red-gold in the dying sunlight. "It's crude
becauseI didn't have tools to make real jewelry." I pointed outthe half-inch rounded crown where the
stone would be. "Themechanism is here. I call it an attenuator because it attenuatesfield gradients by
several dynopters with absolutely no cumulativediscomfort. Here, try it."
He took it and put it on his ring finger a bit gingerly.
"Ho! How about that! It really does." He took itoff to look it over carefully.
"It's my own invention. I want to market it, but I don'tknow where to begin. I have something else, too." I
tookout my other prize. Grandpa looked at it.
"Looks like half a sleeve. The bottom half."
"I call it a damper and I believe it will replace the retainer. You slip it on like this, fasten this strap below
the elbow andhook this loop around your middle finger to keep it from twisting. Now this material strip
hugs the lateral and completely cutsoff field sensation from that lateral only." I showed himclosely in the
fading light. "There is none of the discomfortand disorientation of the regulation model, and it leaves
allhandling tentacles free. You only wear it on one lateral at atime so there's no problem of over
sensitization, and it's quitecomfortable."
While Grandpa gave it the same careful inspection, I continued,"It will provide as much protection for the
Gens as the retainers;and used with an attenuator, it can make any Sime reasonably comfortablein any
field gradient, even direct skin contact. No time limit. No agony. No torture. The problem is to convince
them of that."
No family patriarch was ever more respected than Grandpa Digen. What he said went. I waited
anxiously while he pondered. Withfamily help, the first step of my crusade would be easy. To marketmy
inventions for private use of Simes -- for instance exchangestudents living with all-Gen families, or for
medical therapy-- and then get accepted by the Gens. The second step -- to putthe use of them
completely at the discretion of the individualSime -- would take much longer and be more difficult.
At last Grandpa spoke. "That will require convincing theGen public that transfer cannot possibly take
place without allfour laterals in skin contact. We'd have to yet their congressto legalize the things. We'd
have to get our congress to definecriteria for need of them. It would mean a tremendous publicrelations
campaign to drum up Gen sympathy for their sufferingSime friends ..."
He trailed off, and I sat perfectly still holding my breath asit became completely dark. The old man still
had a quick intelligence,a lightening grasp of the heights and depths of a problem.
When he spoke again, it was with a fired enthusiasm. "Whata fight that would make! What a crusade! I'm
going to do it. My last crusade, my last project."
I leaned back with an explosive sigh. Now to business.
While I spent the next ten days in Noadron, relaxing, quietlymotionless for hours at a time, Grandpa
Digen made plans and contactedpeople. Each evening we'd sit and watch the sunset and he'd tellme how
it was going.
The first night he reported that he had spoken to several Simemanufacturing firms and a patent attorney.
My inventions wouldbe on the market in all Sime territories within the month.
A few days later, he had arranged for a publisher to put out abook about transfer mechanics and
field-gradient sensing writtenin an easy, popular style. Also, he had someone working to changethe image
of the Sime in Gen fiction from the aloofly non-participant-- which was the least explosive he'd been able
to manage whenhe was running his integration crusade -- to sensitive, long-suffering,understanding,
human type people. In a few weeks we'd start pushingstories about retainer incidents.
He organized the whole thing so well that I began to feel it wasn'tmy project. But on the tenth day, we
were sitting on the porchagain, after dinner.
"Well, son, have you had enough Noadron to last you a while?"
"Yes, quite enough."
"That's good. Feel up to a little trip to Washington?"
"Washington? The Gen capitol?"
"Hmmm." He nodded affirmatively.
"I suppose so. Why?"
"Operation High Time is your baby. It's time you took over. I'm too old to travel and too weak to
buttonhole, browbeat, cajole,argue and plead. That's your job and you're scheduled to startwith some
lobbying in Washington."

                                                      II
The next morning I was still saying to myself, over and over,"Me? Lobby? In Washington?" I felt unsure
as I boardedthe special helicopter Grandpa had arranged for me.
It just didn't fit my self-image. What does a young doctor whoshould be interning in something-or-other
Memorial Hospital knowabout politics? Still, I'd asked for it when I started this wholething.
As I climbed into the chopper -- life-powered, not petrochemical--thepilot, a Q-class Sime, began to
modulate the three dynopter fieldsthat twirled our blades, and we were off.
Cross country from the Pacific Ocean to Washington-on-Potomacin a two-seat whirly would be
impossible if we couldn't hop fromone Sime island territory to the next for re-fueling, that istaking on new
life-packed batteries.
We arrived at the Sime Reserve just south of the Potomac borderof Washington about dark, and I
decided to stay at the HarvingtonWard for the night before plunging into the Gen area. The SimeReserve
is not really a Sime Territory. It's a legal fiction,like a foreign embassy. Its borders are sacrosanct and it's
internallyunder Sime law, but it's only the size of a small city, not theusual few hundred miles across.
From my room in the Ward, I couldsee the Gen capitol afire with colored lights designed to makethe
buildings look impressive, which was unnecessary. They were. What was impressive to me was that of all
that electricity, probablysixty percent was life-powered.
The next morning I claimed the car Grandpa had reserved for meand drove into the Gen Capitol. It was
one of those magnificentlyalive fall days that can follow the misery of a Washington summer.
I had a ten o'clock appointment with Jon Izak whom Grandpa hadonly identified as a professional
lobbyist. Izak's plush suitewas across the street from the Senate offices. His private officecowered behind
three roams full of secretaries and stenographers. In his office, I waited for him while gloomily
contemplatinghow I'd stopped every machine in the place simply by walking inthe door. Evidently, they
weren't expecting a Sime.
"So you're Mairus Farris!"
The voice that came from behind me would have boomed fifty yearsago. Now it croaked huskily. I was
startled enough to jump tomy feet. I hadn't felt the field gradient increase because Iwas wearing retainers,
of course.
"Well, turn around, let me have a look at you."
I turned obediently while examining the speaker. He was a Gen. Maybe eighty or eighty-five. A little
shorter than my five-footeleven, portly but not obese. He looked like an elder statesman,complete with
silver-knobbed cane.
He snapped a formidable-looking lock on the door and hobbled tohis polished desk, gesturing at me.
"Take them things offand make yourself at home. You're the spittin' image of yourgrandfather, you know
that?"
"No, sir, I didn't," I said, so surprised I actuallystarted removing my retainers. Then, I realized what I was
doingand stopped, horrified.
"Go on! Go on!" the old man prompted. "Yourgrandfather and I worked together many years ago. I'll
neverforget it. Crusades he called 'em! Hah! I'll never forget thetime... . No, not now. Digen got me out
of retirement to giveyou a hand, not a lecture. You comfortable?"
"Yes, sir," I said.
"Well, I'm going to give you a hand. In fact my whole organizationis going to give you multiple hands, but
we won't do your workfor you. You've got about three weeks of good hard leg work todo. Think you're
up to it?"
"Yes, sir," I said, not at all sure I was.
"Good! Now, my son generally runs this place these days,but he's off helping his wife have a baby, so
we'll just haveto get along without him." He started hunting through drawers.
"I don't know anything about this sort of work, sir. I'mjust an intern."
"Well, you can talk, can't you?"
"Yes," I said, bewildered.
"Retainers drive you crazy, don't they?"
I nodded again. He seemed to know all about me.
"All right. All you have to do is be yourself. Projectyour sincerity for your cause. Tell 'em like they never
heardit before. You'll do all right."
"Ah. Here they are!" he produced a stack of papers.
"Briefly, the situation is this. There's a bill up beforethe Senate." He handed me a paper. "Says that
publicestablishments, restaurants, theatres, even buses, have the rightto designate areas where Simes may
enjoy the services withouthaving to wear retainers. It's been up in one form or anotherseveral years now,
but always dies in committee. You're goingto see every member of that committee, and you're going to
talkthat bill onto the floor. Here are your appointments." He handed me another paper.
"Next year, when the public has been softened up a bit, we'llget a bill legalizing your inventions.
Meantime, you've got toconvince these men that retainers are painful, therefore dangerous,and public rest
areas should be provided for those who want 'em. Here's a bunch of statistics. Memorize 'em and use
'em. Goodluck."
I found myself on the street, my head whirling like the bladesof the copter that had brought me here. It
didn't stop whirlingfor three weeks. I talked. I saw every one on the list severaltimes. I learned to
recognize influential Senators and catchthem in restaurants, corridors, even the men's room. Soon
everybodyknew me; in fact, they and their secretaries knew me better thanI knew them. Which
sometimes wasn't so good.
Then it was the big morning, the day the committee would eitherreport the bill out or table it for the year.
I figured it hada good chance. I'd convinced a majority of the committee. ButSenator Fieldman, the
chairman, was still the Opposition.
Oh, he'd made a lot of public noise about how he was all for "humanetreatment of our fellow humans, the
so-called Simes." Andthe public swallowed it. I'd looked up his voting record andI knew what to expect.
So it was with some apprehension that I entered the pseudo-Grecianbuilding that served the Senate. The
inside was as modern astomorrow while the outside was kept archaic. "As a linkwith our revered
ancestors," it said over the door. I marchedself-consciously down the long, carpeted, and hush-ceilinged
corridors,avoiding the occasional Gen and hunting conference room A-35.
I had become quite adept at finding my way around government buildings,so I walked right to it and
swung my weight against the door asif I knew where I was going.
I bumped my nose on the newspaper clipping tacked to the lockeddoor.
It read in part, "Senator Fieldman and his fifteen-year-oldson, Ronald, were kidnapped last night from
their Washington apartment. Mrs. Fieldman says that no ransom note has reached her. TheWashington
police... . ."
There was a handwritten note attached saying that the committeemeeting was postponed. I must have
stood staring at the clippingfor several minutes reading it over and over. All it said wasthat they knew
nothing. Dazed, I wandered back to the lobby andsat in my favorite chair in a tiny alcove almost hidden
behinda huge potted frond. I stared at the oiled leaves and thoughtfuriously.
From my viewpoint, the motive was easy--to stop my bill. I'd convinced a lot of people of the need for
the bill, but theywouldn't necessarily stay convinced. Perhaps the Opposition believedSenator Fieldman's
public stand. Or perhaps they wanted timeto do some counter-lobbying.
It didn't matter; they had stopped the bill by stopping the voteby removing the key figure. If they kept him
isolated for a fewdays, the committee would elect a new chairman and proceed. Bythen, the situation
would be less favorable to me.
So the kidnappers would have instructions to hold the Senator,probably without hurting him, in as
unlikely a place as they couldmanage, but not too far from Washington, so he'd be available.
Perhaps taking the son was an accident, or perhaps they plannedto release the Senator while holding his
son to insure cooperation.
I asked myself over and over, "Where wouldn't the policelook?" It was two o'clock and I was still asking
myselfwhen hunger drove me to the nearest restaurant. I didn't likeeating in Gen restaurants because
retainers were required, butafter six years of school cafeterias, I'd learned to handle utensilswithout
pinching my laterals too often. Pain like that spoilsdigestion.
Naturally, I was shown to a corner table. Nobody wants to eatwith a Sime at the next table. After I'd
ordered, the waitersilently presented the Sime beverage list, and I chose Porstan,the vaguely sweet Sime
beer. To a Gen, it tastes like iodine.
I sat back and observed the restfully dim, wood-paneled, carpetedroom. Each table had an elegant white
tablecloth that seemedto glow in the shadows, reflecting more than its fair share ofthe light from the
ancient crystal chandelier. Most of the tableswere empty now, but some were surrounded by neatly
dressed Washingtonitesconducting the real business of government.
I watched the waiter. He hadn't spoken a word to me. He'd knownimmediately that I was Sime. There
was no outward differencebetween us, but he'd known--or assumed--simply on the basis ofmy retainers,
that I was Sime. I ate slowly, mulling that thoughtover, turning it every which way. Somehow, it was
important,but I couldn't quite see how. That's the way it always was. Why did it attract my attention
now?
With the last swallow of Porstan, it suddenly hit me.
Suppose, wild as it might sound, just suppose a Gen walked inwearing retainers! Every Gen in the place
would know he was Sime. Only another Sime would know different, provided he was closeenough to
sense the field gradient and he wasn't wearing retainers. In one huge inductive feat. I knew where they
had taken SenatorFieldman!
I made for my car and was on the road for the Sime Reserve beforeI'd had time to question the validity
of induction.
The Sime Reserve border was not guarded by both Simes and Genslike Sime Territories. It had a Gen
military guard only. AnySime could pass inward without challenge, and Gen could pass outwardwithout
challenge. Vice-versa you needed papers and counter-signatures. Any Gen audacious enough to snap
retainers on his wrists likemedieval gauntlets could pass the Gen guards with a breezy wave,just as I was
doing. A Sime who happened to look like SenatorFieldman would not be noticed or reported.
Now, where would they put up? In the city itself, where no Simewore retainers and no Gen non-Donor
was allowed, they'd be discoveredimmediately. As soon as I'd asked the question, the answer
loomedobvious. I turned onto the main reserve boulevard, setting myselfin the through lane in step with
the traffic lights heading duesouth.
There were a couple of hours of daylight yet, and I knew whereI was going. If they were there indeed, it
would be the interracialincident of the century. Gens would demand rights of search ofSime Territory
instead of granting us greater freedom. I decidedto look over the situation and see if I couldn't break it up
quietly.
My destination was an abandoned copter port built before the developmentof ground-effect landing
made it reasonable to set a chopper downin town. My pilot had pointed it out on our way down. The
SimeReserve extended five miles south of the town to include the copterport and, on its far side, a wild
life preserve and picnic area. I shot past the field, scarcely daring to look for signs of life. At the first
turnoff under the trees, I parked next to a bluesedan. There were no other cars about, and nobody was
in sight. My heart leaped into my throat. It could be their car! I wipedmy palms on my trousers and
removed my retainers. As far as Icould tell, I was alone.
The October foliage was a furious riot of color, and the earlyevening breeze was brisk with the promise
of winter. I took adeep breath, buttoned my coat, and crept into the forest in thedirection of the copter
field.
A kind of foreboding dread settled over me as I crept throughthat forest. I hadn't been so scared since I
went into the QN-1placement test when I was thirteen. The placement was designedto strain resources,
to determine limits. I'd had nightmaresfor six months after. I had that same nightmarish feeling now.
Finally, I reached a tremendous oak and peeped around its gnarledtrunk at the whitewashed, decrepit
passenger terminal, squareand lonely on the cracked concrete apron. The starkness of thescene was
relieved only by the huge poles that had held lightsand Reeves projectors.
"This is silly," I said to myself. "You're beingmelodramatic. Now, take yourself back to the car and go
talkto the police if you think there's anything in it."
By the time I yielded to good sense, it had turned full dark. When I noticed that, I noticed the Gen
standing behind me.
I must have been lost in a reverie akin to Noadron. I had notfelt him approach, but he was definitely a
non-Donor. I startedto turn around.
"Hold it!" the man said. "I have a gun primedright in your back. Now march! Right up to the front door."
I had no choice. I marched.
                                                    III
They had pitched a tent in the waiting room and had camp lanterns,a stove and a small heater going.
There was the smell of boiledcoffee and a staleness of onion and garlic. Each of these alonewas enough
to turn my stomach; together they almost made me vomit.
My captor jabbed the gun barrel in my back and marched me to thedispatcher's office, a small shack in
the rear corner. He threwa makeshift bolt they had nailed to the door and shoved me inwith he stock of
his rifle. I sprawled on the floor weakly, fightingnausea and the backwash of fear. Only when my head
stopped swimmingdid I realize I was imprisoned with Senator Fieldman and his son.
There was enough moonlight through the small duroplast windowto see the boy lying on a blanket in one
corner and the Senatorstanding by the window staring at me. His prematurely bald patereflected the
moonlight, creating a halo for his distinguishedfeatures.
"Mr. Farris?!" I'm sure he did not know what to think.
"Yes, sir." I got up and brushed myself off.
"What ... ?"
He was entitled to an explanation so I told him everything. Allthe time I was talking I was nagged by a
queer discomfort, butdidn't pay much attention. But when I'd finished, that prickcame into sharp focus. I
went over to the boy, "What's thematter with your son?"
"Ronald suddenly took sick this morning. I think he's sleepingoff a fever. These ..." He searched for a
sufficientlystrong term as I searched for words to tell him the news. "Thesecriminals won't pay any
attention."
I bent down and felt Ronald's forearms, extending a lateral behindhis ear and checking his temperature
and the field gradient. I knew already -- it's an instinct to recognize it -- but I wentthrough the motions
anyway.
"Senator, sit down, sir."
It was beginning to dawn on him. He sat on the floor. Therewas no furniture.
"Ronald is ..." I took a breath and started again. "Ronald is going through changeover." As a QN-1
I'ddelivered that news hundreds of times, but it had never been sohard.
He just sat there and stared. I imagine he felt as if the elevatorhad gone down and left his stomach on the
fifth floor. He satperfectly still, perfectly silent for about five or ten minutes: then he took a deep breath
and began to sob.
I gave him a handkerchief, but I didn't touch him. He might havemisunderstood. He was a non-Donor.
What could I say? In a Simefamily, changeover is a celebration.
At last he blew his nose and said, "Never before in my family,never!"
"Senator," I said more to be talking than to say anything,"thirty percent of the children of two Simes are
Gens andthirty percent of the children of two Gens are Simes. It's norespector of family. Your son is not
lost to you. He's growingup. But he'll always be your son. Possibly, if you're willingto make some
adjustments, he may come back to live with you."
He heaved a great sigh; he knew I meant he'd have to become aDonor. It would be a complete change
of philosophy. Many parentsin this situation still react with violent hatred. A generationago, it was
common for a Gen parent to murder his child duringthe first helpless stage of changeover. Now, from our
educationalcampaigns, they generally accept the situation. But some whohave strong anti-Sime feelings,
disown the child. I was relievedwhen Fieldman spoke with dazed neutrality.
"What can we do for him here?"
I turned to my patient, trying to sense the exact state of hiscondition. "Would you move back, please, sir?
I want tocheck him over more carefully."
He moved to the far corner of the room, and the gradient easedoff so I could separate out Ronald's. I
checked the forearmsagain. The tentacles were tiny ropes beneath the skin, so smallyou had to know
what to look for. His temperature was rising;it was almost Sime normal, so his hormone balance was
almost achieved. I checked the back of his neck, and the Remott gland was swollennearly to changeover
maximum; no wonder he was unconscious. Hewas well into Sequence four and so far so good, but I
could seetrouble.
The life-energy supply he was born with would run out before hislaterals would be developed enough to
receive more. It was acommon problem with the children of Gens. Fear eats life at astupendous rate.
Before the QN channels these children died. Today, a channel backed by a Sime hospital could usually
savethem. Practically nobody died in changeover these days.
I was not backed by a Sime hospital, but I was supposed to bean extraordinary skilled channel, a QN-1.
Bunk! Without certaindrugs, there was nothing I could do.
I got up, stuck my hands in my pockets and stared at the onlydoor in our prison.
"There are six men out there with guns," Fieldman said,"and they're the type who'd use them."
"But they don't want your son to die."
"Die!"
"Relax. He won't if I can help it." I pounded on thedoor trying to sound imperious and humble.
Presently, a gruff voice, full of gravel ... or maybe buckshot... said, "What'cha want?"
I said, "We've got a very sick boy in here. He'll die withoutmedical aid. I'm a doctor, I can save him, but
I need a few things."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Extra blankets. He's got a high fever. And some medicines. In my car, in the glove compartment, there's
a flat metal case. It has everything I need except water."
"And you want us to let you go get your case and whateverSime weapons is in it? You think we're nuts?"
"The car is unlocked. Get the case yourself. Don't tryto open it, though. I'll open it for you. It's life-locked
andyou'd only destroy the contents."
"Huh. Well, I'll think about it.
He left, and I laid my jacket and coat over the boy. Fieldmanshook his head and started to take off his
coat.
"No, no, sir," I said. "Don't. It isn't necessary. I can keep warm other ways."
He understood I meant by using my stored life-energy. As a channel,I always carried far more than I
needed just to stay alive. Iwas entrusted with public property, to be dispensed to Simes inneed, and to
be used in the public interest.
It must have been almost two hours later that I heard the boltof the door slide.
"O.K., Sime, come on out of there. Make it slow."
Gravel voice was back. There was a slight glow from the tent,but I'm sure it wasn't visible from outside.
Three men were silhouettedagainst that glow, their faces pale in the moonlight from theobservation
windows. They were all Gen non-Donors, wearing mismatchedhiking clothes and knee-high boots and
pointing rifles at me.
"Into the tent." Gravel voice gestured, and they closedin behind me.
A fourth man hulked over a small table illuminated by a suspendedlantern. He was at least a head taller
than the others and maybefifty pounds heavier. The tent held six cots and a couple ofstools. The
emergency kit from the car lay on the table.
"There's your miracle box, 'Doctor.' Open it!" saidthe big one.
His voice was about two octaves higher than expected from a manthat size. He shoved it at me and
moved back, obviously takingno chances.
I thumbed it open. As I had expected, it was almost the standardkit containing the thirty-six chemicals
used to aid changeover--pills,liquids and aromatics.
"As you can see, it contains nothing but medicines,"I said as steadily as I could.
"Sime medicines! How's that and a Sime doctor going to helphim?"
"I'm a Sime doctor, but I've had some training in Gen medicine." I wasn't going to admit that Ronald was
one of us. "Inaddition to this, I'll need extra blankets, and, in the morningsome boiling water."
The big one seemed to be the boss. He sat there and squintedat me for an eternity before flicking a finger
at gravel voice,who picked up a bundle from the nearest cot while the others proddedme out the door.
The moonlight had shifted, and this time I spotted the rest roomsign. "Hey." I said to gravel voice, "Does
thatwork or do we go find a tree?" "It works ... you geta turn in the morning." The rest of the way back I
wonderedwhat would happen if I insisted on taking a turn right now.
I found Fieldman pacing anxiously across the far end of the roomfrom his son. Retrieving my coat, I
covered the boy with theextra blanket and started him on an aromatic sedative. He gavea few tosses of
the head and then relaxed completely.
"He's sleeping now, Sir, the way he needs to sleep. In themorning you'll tell him that you accept him, that
you still lovehim and you'll give him courage." I held my breath waitingfor his commitment.
"Yes, yes. I can do that. At least that. I ..."
Relieved, I said, "In the meantime, we ought to try to helpourselves out of this situation.
"There's no way out," Fieldman gave a hopeless littleshrug. "I've tried everything. The window does not
break,but there must be some way ..."
"If we wait long enough, we'll get found ..."
"We can't wait. By tomorrow afternoon Ronald's conditionwill be obvious, even to them. If they believe
that this willbind you to the Sime viewpoint, they may kill us and run."
"What do you propose to do?"
"I don't know. I must admit I'm embarrassed. A Sime trappedin a Sime building in Sime territory by
Gens. Most embarrassing."
Through our tiny window, I studied the landing apron and its borderof undisciplined forest which one day
would obliterate this relicof modern civilization as it had countless pre-Sime structures. My mind whirled
like the vanes of an idling copter, throwingup five or six plans to arouse my eagerness to be away from
here. Free to take my patient to the facilities he really needed.
And, like a Judo expert, I used that figurative centrifugal forceto rid myself of those plans because each
one involved newly discoveredQN-1 abilities. I could not betray our secrets to the Gens merelyto save a
few lives. Any premature hint of these superior orodd talents of Simes would only be fuel for the
anti-Simes whowould burn us at the stake.
Presently, the senator said very quietly, "A man whose touchcan kill doesn't need a gun ..."
"Senator!" I whirled on him truly shocked. That hadn'toccurred to me. "Every Sime is pledged to die by
attritionor suicide rather than kill in transfer. That's what I've beentelling you for weeks. This is no longer
the Dark Ages. Genscan trust Simes. What use is life without stable society?"
After a long pause he said very faintly, "It was only a thought."
I returned to staring out the window. Moonlight glinted off thetop of the light standards. For the first time,
I noticed theReeves projector casings humped at the tops of the poles likefrightened monkeys.
I said, "Isn't it strange that the toilets were left operative?"
Fieldman looked at me a moment then shrugged accepting the oddcomment. "Perhaps they turned them
on?"
"Perhaps," I said searching the room with renewed interest. "And then again perhaps not."
How had the dispatcher's furniture been placed? The chart atthat end where Ronald now lay, Atlas case,
radiophone , and thedispatcher's desk in this corner opposite the door. I ran myhand down the join in the
walls. The Reeves control box was mountedto be reached from the desk, life-locked, about as big as my
hand.
Not daring to hope, not daring to think, I opened the box andthrew the switch. A surge of power!
Somewhere charged life-batteriesstill fed the projectors.
"They work!"
"What work?"
"The Reeves projectors."
"Fine. What are Reeves projectors?"
"Standard markers used to supplement lights by creating aninterference pattern any Sime can sense. They
take hours to warmup, but with any luck, they may be noticed by noon tomorrow. When a field is in use,
they're kept warm on standby, but thesewere turned completely off. Odd that they weren't removed,
butvery lucky for us."
"Now all we have to do is to survive until tomorrow afternoon."
"And to do that we'd better get some rest."
"I couldn't sleep."
Even without examining the deepening circles about his eyes Icould sense the fatigue in him. "Sir,
tomorrow is goingto be a very hard day. You'll need all your faculties. You reallymust sleep, at least a
few hours." I hesitated a few breathsand then decided, "If you wish, I could help you sleep ..."
Instantly, I regretted it. He gasped and stiffened in panic. Simes are ultra-sensitive to a Gen's fear and
react with instinctiveaggressiveness. I suppressed my animal response with grittedteeth and clenched fists,
and tried to calm him. "Senator,I won't touch you without your permission ... ever."
Then suddenly it was over. He said, "Yes, there's no timelike now. If only for Ronald's sake ... what do I
do?"
Arranging a couple of blankets in the farthest corner from Ronald,I said, "Lie down here, push your
sleeves up and try to relax."
I sat on a blanket on his left side and began to talk softly,"Now, this will work only if you co-operate.
Listen to myvoice, relax, think very hard about sunrise. You don't want toknow anything until sunrise
when the light will awaken you. I'mgoing to touch you, lightly just with my hand."
I brushed the palms of his hands. "Now, I've got an accuratereading, I'm going to even the field gradient.
Relax, don't pullaway, just lie still. You won't feel a thing; next thing youknow it will be dawn and you will
wake refreshed."
I leaned forward and made wrist contact with my laterals. ThenI brushed his lips with mine ever so gently
for the time senseadjustment so he would sleep.
It was his first, so I only took the first level of his life-store. He was a General Class Donor now.
I bedded down next to my patient, linked to be roused instantlyby any minor change in his condition.
                                                    IV
I woke to pre-dawn grayness and checked Ronald over. Now he neededexercise. When I waved a
second aromatic under his nose, he stirredrestlessly. Then I sat him up, supporting him against my chestas
I chose a small vial of liquid.
"Ronny, Ronny, I'm your friend, Ronny, I'm going to helpyou feel better." He looked at me, bleary-eyed,
with changeover'sinstinctive hostility, the withdrawal, the need for total privacyduring the vulnerable phase
warring openly with the docile suggestivityinduced by my drugs. "Here, drink this down. It will clearyour
head. I know you don't want to swallow, but this won't upsetyour stomach."
The drugs prevailed, and he drank. While we huddled together,waiting for it to take effect, his father
woke. Ronald had buriedhis face in my shoulder and was breathing heavily to the wavesof sensation from
the drugs and from his condition. I motionedhis father to be still and waited.
Finally, Ronald drew a shuddering sigh and looked up tomy face, down at my arms, and then shrank
away in trained reflex.
Our eyes met. I said, "You too, you know?"
Hesitantly, he nodded.
"Ronald." I took his hands. "Don't fight it anymore. Your life depends on that. I can help you only if
yourelax and accept it. You do what I say and you'll live. I promise."
I motioned his father over. "Talk to him a while." And I went to the window to give them privacy.
The Reeves projectors were drawing power, but I knew they werestill imperceptible. The building was
insulated, so I wouldn'tknow when they established a pattern but I could guess.
Suddenly, my stomach remembered it hadn't had any dinner and onlya light lunch yesterday. I pounded
on the door and kicked ituntil gravel voice husked sleepily, "What'cha want?"
"Breakfast, and that pot of hot water. Or are we to be starvedto death?"
It was a crude jibe. Simes always fed their prisoners well. But it was effective. Half an hour later we
received boiled eggs,bread, cheese, mild coffee, and a pot of hot water.
I sent the Senator to eat while I poured some of the hot waterin a cup, added a powder from the
emergency kit and took it toRonald. I turned him to the corner and sat in front of him, takingout my other
handkerchief.
"This is going to be painful, but it's necessary. I fearyou've used too much life-energy. So you'll require
more beforeyour laterals are fully developed. If I weren't here, that wouldbe deadly. But I am here. And
I'm a QN-1. I can force a transferto you with a minimum development of your tentacles, but I needat
least that minimum.
"This is old-fashioned and very crude, but effective." I dipped the handkerchief in the steaming water and
applied itto his forearms. He bore that torture with staid courage until,finally, I wiped the tears of pain
from his eyes.
Then I tested the brew I had prepared and made him drink it all. It was pure nourishment in a form his
disturbed metabolism couldaccept.
I spent the rest of the morning alternately walking Ronald aroundthe room and instructing him in the
channel's transfer technique. Gen-Sime transfer is instinctive, but Sime-Sime transfer hasto be learned.
With lunch, I demanded more hot water and got it without comment. Surprisingly, our captors did not
look in on us more often. I suppose they depended on the outside guards. I knew that atthis time of year
only the rangers and the border police usedthis road, so I didn't care to calculate the probability of
theright man noticing the Reeves field and reacting the right way.
About mid-afternoon, I began routine sedation for Ronald's firsttransfer, an effective tranquilizer that
would nevertheless sharpenhis new senses. It was getting dark when I could put it off nolonger.
I engaged the life-lock on the door to insure our privacy, "Sir,I'm going to ask you to stay back in the
corner again. The lessinterference the better."
"He's going to be all right?"
"Definitely. But this is the critical point."
That was more confidence than I felt. I'd never done it outsidea hospital before. Nothing is quite like your
first field test. Reminding myself that I was far overqualified for this simplejob, and that any QN-3 could
have done it, I worked through theroutine very slowly, talking the half-conscious boy into
confidence,reminding him of what I'd taught him that morning, and slowlybuilding up a tremendous field
gradient between us. I watchedfor his first instinctive reaching toward the apex of that gradient,the sign
that I really had my minimal development.
I got it after two heartstopping minutes, made contact, gave himenough to see him through to full
development, and withdrew.
Just in time, too. I sensed somebody at the door. Hastily Idisengaged the life-lock and tried to pull myself
together. Afterthat operation, I needed about five minutes to return to normal.
It was our dinner, the same uninspiring fare. And another potof hot water ... . . unasked.
"How's the kid?" gravel voice inquired.
"Sleeping. I think he'll be fine."
Gravel voice looked me up and down once, very slowly, "Yeah... he better be." I was afraid he'd look
for himself, buthe left with only a glance at the heap of blankets in the corner. Perhaps he thought it was
contagious.
I sat down, poured myself a cup of hot water, added a little somethingfrom the emergency kit, and drank
it all. It helped. I stoppedshaking.
Then, I noticed Fieldman. I poured another cup of water and addeda mild Gen sedative from the
beginning of the sequence. I'd beentreating Ronald from the middle of the array and I'd taken minefrom
the end. "Doctor Farris prescribes." I offeredhim the cup.
He hesitated. I smiled. "Come on, sir, this is good foryou."
With a sigh, he sat beside me and took the cup. "Rescue'slate."
"Not too. I think we're safe until morning. I don't knowabout you, but I've had a day. I'm going to sleep.
"How can you sleep?"
"I don't know but I'll manage."
I woke to the sound of rifle fire. The Senator stood by the window,moonlight splashing the floor around
his shadow. Ronald was soundlyunconscious.
"Rescue?" I asked.
"I think so. I think so. I think they're trying to getaway."
I joined him to watch for the sporadic flashes among the trees. Presently, it tapered off and ceased.
Fifteen minutes laterthe bolt slid, and the door opened.
Grandpa Digen stood there leaning on his cane and chuckling.
Four days later, Grandpa and I sat on our porch watching the sunset.
"So they finally rounded up all the people responsible aswell as the kidnappers themselves. Credited
solely to the Simepolice. And you have got yourself a Senator for a friend. Whatmore do you want?"
"What did you mean about Izak? Did he have me followed? I don't want someone snooping on me."
"Hah! No, he didn't have you followed. He has more savvythan you'll ever know. When you didn't check
back, he got worriedand started worrying others. If you'd thought to turn on theReeves sooner, we'd
have got there sooner."
"Well ..." You can't argue with Grandpa, so I changedthe subject. "We got the bill out of committee,
recommendedfor passing. So where do we go from here?"
This set him to wheezing and chuckling and mumbling. "Gotmyself a real trooper for a grandson!"
UZF
FROM JACQUELINE LICHTENBERG:
The above is the first story I ever sold (bought by Fred Pohlfor IF MAGAZINE, who also bought STAR
TREK LIVES!). Proofing the story now, I find a lot I would now handle differently,but we won't go into
that. I refuse to be embarrassed by olderwork which does not come up to my current standard.
    Go to Rimon's library top page , Alphabetical Fiction list , Author's List , featured Authors Page,
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