It was late evening in the billet block at Pearse, and the troops were relaxing. Niderinsky, Jones, Halliman, and Zwinny had got the poker school going at the end table as usual. Thorben was on his bunk, writing a letter. Polk, Yerks, and Irvine were by the TV, arguing politics, which was also getting to be pretty usual. Schott was reading, and Demiro and Lowe, the black PFC that Demiro had met on the first day, were watching Parker fan out a deck of cards while Major Gleavey, who had stopped by on one of his social visits, looked on with interest.
"The darnedest thing is that I never used to be able to pick up an egg without crackin' it," Parker told them. "Now watch this." He ripple-shuffled the deck in midair, extended a forearm and spread the cards out in a smooth run from elbow to palm, flipped the end one over with his fingers, causing the whole line to flip in a wave motion that flowed back to the first, dropped his arm vertically to let the cards fall into a neat stack in his hand, and then spread it one-handed into a perfect fan. "Pick one, somebody. I'll show you sump'n else."
Demiro obliged, showed it to Lowe, and returned it to the deck. Parker mixed it into the deck; gave the deck to each of them to shuffle in turn, then executed a deft -series of cuts and passes, resulting in the card being mater-ialized magically out of thin air. Lowe whooped -appreciatively.
The scientists—mainly Nordens, but also another called Ashling, who seemed to be more a theoretician in the background and only appeared from time to time—had been looking into the transference of complex motor skills that week. The cardsharping routine was a "something extra" that they'd included in Parker's program that day, on top of the officially scheduled items. The men enjoyed this kind of unexpected bonus, and keeping up their enthusiasm was an important part of the work.
"Hey, guys," Lowe called across to the poker game. "Get a load of this. You wanna deal Parker in over there? He'll take your shirts, an' I'm ready to place bets."
"Shove it," Halliman muttered back, studying his cards.
"You see, guys," Gleavey told them, beaming. "I told you on the first day you'd be doing things you never thought possible. Never say we don't deliver, eh?" He nodded at Parker. "The man that came from is a stage magician. He had to practice four hours a day for five years to do what you're doing now."
Demiro had to admit that he was impressed. That same day, after a session on the machine, he himself had been introduced to a new, joint-services logistics-processing computer program. He'd been able to work effortlessly through complicated materials and parts scheduling routines that would previously have taken weeks of operator training and poring over manuals to master. He could also, to his astonish-ment, pick a pretty good tune out of a guitar.
Lowe turned to regard the major with a thoughtful look. "Say, do you think we could get to bring a friend or two in on this?"
"What do you mean?" Gleavey asked suspiciously.
"Well, I was just thinking. See, I've got this chick back home who's okay in a lot o' ways, but she ain't been around too much, if you know what I mean. Could use a little more, what you might call, 'worldly education.' Well, see, there's this place in L.A. called Pussy in Boots, and man, what it'd do for Nancy if she could pick up a few tips from some of the girls in there. I'd be set for life."
Gleavey shook his head in mock despair. "I guess that's a bit further down the line. I've got things to do. I'll see you men tomorrow." He left.
Lowe shrugged. "Sounded like a great idea to me. Don't you reckon so, Tony?"
Demiro, who was in the process of standing up to leave the group, stopped to think about it for the moment. "I think I'd pick the brains of whoever runs that place," he said. "Find out what he knows that I don't know. Then I could make lots of money, and have a good time."
"You can't take money with you, man," Lowe said as Demiro turned away.
"Where can you get to without it?" Demiro threw back.
He went back to his bunk and sat down on the edge to look for something in a magazine he'd left there. Schott was lying reading on the adjacent one. He regarded Demiro over the top of his book for a while, then murmured, "I like your thinking. That's what I'd do too, if I had the choice: learn about making money. Then I'd take it to a place where business isn't a crime, the way it's getting to be here. Know what I mean? Someplace where people might actually be appreciated for doing something worthwhile."
"Not a lot of that around these days," Demiro agreed.
Schott set his book aside and leaned on an elbow. His voice fell to a more confidential note. "No wonder the ones who are really smart get out. You know what I'm talking about?—out of this whole mess."
Demiro frowned. "Out? . . . You mean to the FER?"
"And more than that. Offworld. That's where it's all happening."
"Is it?" Demiro said guardedly. "I never really thought about it."
"It's not like some lawn out there, where all the grass has to be the same height. Down here they say we all have to be the same. You stick your head up, and someone comes along with a lawn mower. But there, they let everybody grow to whatever they can. That's how it oughta be."
"I don't know. Maybe." Demiro settled back and opened the magazine, not wanting to be drawn into this. On the other bunk, Schott picked up his book again and resumed reading.
Talking about things like that with people you didn't really know wasn't smart. For all he knew, Schott could be a plant, put there to sound out hidden loyalties. Demiro would have been surprised if there weren't at least one in a group like this.
In fact he had been thinking a lot more about defecting, and had talked to Rita about it again during his last leave. Their dream wasn't of anything really farfetched or ambitious. Demiro had always wanted to run his own bookstore—with lots of offbeat titles that you couldn't find in the regular chains, and a section for used books. Rita wanted a coffee shop, one with a feel of quality instead of the usual noisy, plastic-and-glass goldfish bowl, always filled with sloppy-mannered kids—with a score of different blends of coffee, and Viennese pastries, she'd said, and maybe playing classical music. Their latest thought had been to combine the two into one venture. Nothing really fancy. It would just be a way of making a living. And leave enough time to raise a family—a large one, without needing anyone's permission.
But you didn't talk about such things in a place like this. The way was to keep a clean nose and a straight record, make your plans quietly, and wait for the right opportunities.
Dr. Nordens had followed Schott and Demiro's brief exchange on a screen in a monitor room in part of the Main Complex. He'd have to talk to Schott a bit more, he decided. Schott's job was to bring out the men's political opinions and get them to talk about them, not go probing for possible subversiveness or tendencies to defect. Nordens was interested in identifying optimum subjects, not purging the service. But he had already tagged Demiro as one of the first candidates. His very wariness at being drawn into such matters showed that he had the intelligence.
Nordens thought some more, and then summoned a file onto another screen and entered his decision. So now they'd be able to make a start on the real business at hand. There was no indication that Ashling suspected anything. But they'd have to watch him. Ashling was no fool.
He switched the screen to communications mode and entered a Minneapolis number. Ten seconds later he was talking to Dr. Valdheim. "I've selected the first subject," Nordens advised. "So we're practically ready to go. What's the situation there?"
The gaunt, bespectacled face on the screen nodded. "Everything is looking well. Jarrow is responding successfully. We should have some extracts processed and sent down to you by tomorrow."
"Let's hope so," Nordens replied.