sounded like a British accent.
“You’ll be all right,” the voice said, gripping Al’s hand.
“Don’t worry, son. You’ll be okay.”
Al opened his eyes to see sterile, white walls, comforting and familiar. At first he thought he was back in the academy, until he raised his head enough to see an unfamiliar skyline beyond the window.
“Well,” a man’s voice said.
“I wondered if you had gone into some sort of hibernation cycle.”
The voice he remembered, the cultivated baritone from his fevered nightmare. He started trying to turn his head, but then the speaker walked into view. The first thing Al noticed about him, of course, was the black uniform and brass-and-copper badge. A smile quirked seams in a dusky, broad face with a nose as large and proud as the beak on an eagle. A salt and pepper-mostly salt-mustache and goatee gave him a look that AI tentatively assigned as Shakespearean. Few Psi Cops had facial hair.
“Sir?”
“My name is Sandoval Bey, Mr. Bester. You may call me Mr. Bey.”
That name rang a bell. Bey… Dr. Bey, if he remembered correctly-was a high-level instructor. Why was he in the uniform of a Psi Cop?
“What happened, sir?”
“Not a very precise question, Mr. Bester. What happened today, yesterday, a thousand years ago? Here, in Spain, on the moon?”
Al detected no actual remonstrance in his gentle, jovial tone or merry eyes.
“I mean, what happened with the Blips, sir.”
He paused an instant and then modified that.
“Lara Brazg and Portis Nielsson. I was chasing them…”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Bester. I think I can guess what you meant from context. Lara Brazg is in custody, thanks to you, on her way, hopefully, to be reeducated. Portis Nielsson - well, I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
“Are you? He did try to kill you. Put a neat hole through your left lung with that flechette pistol of his.”
“Yes, sir. But he might have been reeducated, if…”
“If what, Mr. Bester? If we had captured him alive? Yes, the odds of that would have been increased greatly if you had done the proper thing, and called Psi Corps the moment you picked up their trail.”
Al winced. Then it dawned on him.
“Will I get a reprimand on my record, sir?”
“That would seem to be appropriate, wouldn’t it?”
An ambiguous smile ghosted Bey’s lips.
“But no, the test of intelligence is in the evaluating of its mistakes. That test is one you must take now, but it won’t be Psi Corps that judges your score - it will be the universe, and her executioner, evolution.”
Al smiled weakly.
“Yes, sir. Natural selection almost got me, I suppose.”
“Almost, Mr. Bester. But don’t forget whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
He cocked his head thoughtfully.
“Of course, in actual fact something that almost kills you can leave you crippled for life, mentally and physically, and greatly hasten your death. I find that Nietzsche engaged in a lot of wishful thinking, not a trait I associate with strength, really.”
Despite the grim topic, he smiled broadly. That made Al’s head swim, ever so slightly. In the that queasy at - sea state he remembered something, however.
“Sir, I got something from them. They were headed for a safe house on the rue-the Rue de Pepin. 1412, Rue de Pepin.”
“I see. Well, very good, Mr. Bester. That will be seen to, and your cooperation noted, I’m sure. You’re a very lucky fellow.”
“I’m lucky you found me. Thank you, sir, for saving my life.
“Well, that is the function of the aged, Mr. Bester. Once we can no longer contribute to the race in a direct, genetic way, we keep our eyes on the young. But you helped yourself a great deal, with that distress call of yours. If not for that, we would have certainly been too late. We were looking in a whole different quarter of the city.”
“Then you already knew that Brazg and Nielsson were here?”
“What? Oh, no, Mr. Bester. We had no
“You’ll be all right,” the voice said, gripping Al’s hand.
“Don’t worry, son. You’ll be okay.”
Al opened his eyes to see sterile, white walls, comforting and familiar. At first he thought he was back in the academy, until he raised his head enough to see an unfamiliar skyline beyond the window.
“Well,” a man’s voice said.
“I wondered if you had gone into some sort of hibernation cycle.”
The voice he remembered, the cultivated baritone from his fevered nightmare. He started trying to turn his head, but then the speaker walked into view. The first thing Al noticed about him, of course, was the black uniform and brass-and-copper badge. A smile quirked seams in a dusky, broad face with a nose as large and proud as the beak on an eagle. A salt and pepper-mostly salt-mustache and goatee gave him a look that AI tentatively assigned as Shakespearean. Few Psi Cops had facial hair.
“Sir?”
“My name is Sandoval Bey, Mr. Bester. You may call me Mr. Bey.”
That name rang a bell. Bey… Dr. Bey, if he remembered correctly-was a high-level instructor. Why was he in the uniform of a Psi Cop?
“What happened, sir?”
“Not a very precise question, Mr. Bester. What happened today, yesterday, a thousand years ago? Here, in Spain, on the moon?”
Al detected no actual remonstrance in his gentle, jovial tone or merry eyes.
“I mean, what happened with the Blips, sir.”
He paused an instant and then modified that.
“Lara Brazg and Portis Nielsson. I was chasing them…”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Bester. I think I can guess what you meant from context. Lara Brazg is in custody, thanks to you, on her way, hopefully, to be reeducated. Portis Nielsson - well, I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
“Are you? He did try to kill you. Put a neat hole through your left lung with that flechette pistol of his.”
“Yes, sir. But he might have been reeducated, if…”
“If what, Mr. Bester? If we had captured him alive? Yes, the odds of that would have been increased greatly if you had done the proper thing, and called Psi Corps the moment you picked up their trail.”
Al winced. Then it dawned on him.
“Will I get a reprimand on my record, sir?”
“That would seem to be appropriate, wouldn’t it?”
An ambiguous smile ghosted Bey’s lips.
“But no, the test of intelligence is in the evaluating of its mistakes. That test is one you must take now, but it won’t be Psi Corps that judges your score - it will be the universe, and her executioner, evolution.”
Al smiled weakly.
“Yes, sir. Natural selection almost got me, I suppose.”
“Almost, Mr. Bester. But don’t forget whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
He cocked his head thoughtfully.
“Of course, in actual fact something that almost kills you can leave you crippled for life, mentally and physically, and greatly hasten your death. I find that Nietzsche engaged in a lot of wishful thinking, not a trait I associate with strength, really.”
Despite the grim topic, he smiled broadly. That made Al’s head swim, ever so slightly. In the that queasy at - sea state he remembered something, however.
“Sir, I got something from them. They were headed for a safe house on the rue-the Rue de Pepin. 1412, Rue de Pepin.”
“I see. Well, very good, Mr. Bester. That will be seen to, and your cooperation noted, I’m sure. You’re a very lucky fellow.”
“I’m lucky you found me. Thank you, sir, for saving my life.
“Well, that is the function of the aged, Mr. Bester. Once we can no longer contribute to the race in a direct, genetic way, we keep our eyes on the young. But you helped yourself a great deal, with that distress call of yours. If not for that, we would have certainly been too late. We were looking in a whole different quarter of the city.”
“Then you already knew that Brazg and Nielsson were here?”
“What? Oh, no, Mr. Bester. We had no
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