Transhuman by Ben Bova

party.”
    *   *   *
    T HE HOTEL WAS an upscale Marriott, with its own restaurant and room service. Fisk had reserved them a two-bedroom suite on the top floor.
    Angela woke up as Luke lifted her out of the van. “Hi, Grandpa,” she said, blinking sleep out of her eyes. Looking around as Luke carried her through the lobby, she said, “Wow, this is super.”
    Tamara, holding the IV bag as she walked beside them, agreed smilingly. “Top-flight place. I hope you can afford it.”
    â€œFisk’s paying for it,” Luke replied. “At least, that’s what his assistant said.”
    Sure enough, the room clerk at the desk told Luke everything had been taken care of. A young bellman offered to find a wheelchair for Angela, but Luke kept his granddaughter in his own arms.
    â€œI can handle it,” he told the bellman.
    The suite was spacious and quiet, with heavy drapes on the windows and thick carpeting. Two bedrooms connected by a tastefully furnished sitting room.
    As Luke deposited Angela on one of the double beds, the child said, “I can sit up, Grandpa.”
    â€œFine,” he answered, with a smile.
    â€œCan I have something to eat?” she asked. “I’m hungry.”
    Luke glanced at Tamara, who said, “Some broth. A cup of Jell-O.”
    â€œA cheese sandwich,” Angela said. “Please? I won’t throw up again. I promise.”
    â€œMaybe later,” Tamara said. “Let’s see how you do with the soup and gelatin.”
    Angela nodded glumly, then turned to Luke. “Where are we going, Grandpa? Can we phone Mommy and Daddy?”
    â€œNot right now, honey,” he said, feeling rotten when he saw the disappointment on her face.
    Tamara asked Luke, “Do you want an ibuprofen?”
    â€œNo, I’m okay.”
    She gave him a doubting look. “After carrying Angela all the way up here, your back isn’t hurting?”
    â€œNo,” said Luke, feeling slightly amazed that it was true. “No pain.”
    Tamara shrugged and went to the phone to call room service. Luke clicked on the TV set and fished for a program that would entertain his granddaughter.
    Once they finished their late lunch, Angela sat up in bed happily enough, watching a kids’ cartoon channel.
    Luke motioned Tamara into the sitting room that connected the suite’s bedrooms. Sitting on the sofa, his laptop on the coffee table, he told her, “Fisk wants me to call him back.”
    â€œIt should be safe enough to use the hotel phone.”
    â€œOn Skype.”
    â€œThat’s even better. You can use your laptop. I don’t think they can trace Skype calls, or if they can, it takes longer. Something like that.”
    Feeling embarrassed, Luke admitted, “I don’t know how to do Skype.”
    Tamara almost laughed, but checked herself just in time. With a smile, she said, “That’s okay. I can show you.”
    Within ten minutes, Luke was talking face-to-face with Quenton Fisk.
    *   *   *
    F ISK WAS STILL at his desk when Luke’s call came through. He peered at Professor Abramson’s image on his wall screen. He had expected the old man to look haggard, weary. Instead Abramson seemed lively, almost energetic.
    â€œI’ve given your problem considerable thought, Professor,” Fisk said, after the usual preliminaries. “I believe I’ve worked out a solution for you.”
    Abramson said nothing, but the expression on his face radiated hope.
    â€œI have a friend in Louisiana, near Baton Rouge,” Fisk explained. “He has a fine old house down there, a former cotton plantation. You can stay there.”
    â€œBut we need a medical facility,” Abramson objected.
    â€œNot to worry, Professor. If Mohammed can’t come to the mountain, we’ll arrange to have the mountain come to Mohammed.”
    Abramson looked doubtful.
    â€œMy friend can