Hal Clement - Through the Eye of a Needle

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THROUGH THE EYE OF A NEEDLE

HAL CLEMENT

(Sequel to NEEDLE)

Contents

1) Apology

2) Generalities

3) Details

4) Complications

5) Arrangements and People

6) When in Doubt, Ask

7) The Moral of a White Lie

8) Joke

9) Routine, Modified

10) Joke Two

11) Joke Three

12) First Aid

13) Joker

14) Reconstruction

15) Professional

16) Official, from Headquarters

Apology

Everyone wants to make an impression on history, but most of us

would prefer it to be a good impression. Some twenty-eight years

ago, I wrote a story called NEEDLE, many of whose characters

reappear in this book. In that story, I frequently referred to one or

the other of the partners in the biological relation called symbiosis

as a symbiote. It will be obvious to many that I was never exposed

to a course in the classic tongues of Italy or Greece. A biology-

teaching colleague pointed out to me, gently and courteously but

much too late that the proper word is symbiont.

Unfortunately, my erroneous contribution to the language has

appeared quite frequently in other stories and even in their titles. I

regret this, but don't know what I can do about it except what I am

doing now. I formally withdraw the word, symbiote, and in this

book replace it with the proper one.

Those who still have hopes of formulating a science which will

describe social phenomena will, I trust, have fun observing the

results of this action.

If any.

Hal Clement

1. Generalities

Of the three people in the cockpit of the Catalina, one was

slightly bored, one was extremely uncomfortable but too

embarrassed to admit it, and the third was wondering whether he

had done the right thing.

The pilot had made the trip from Tahiti to Ell often enough and

had enough thousands of hours in the amphibian that little of his

conscious attention was needed for either operation or navigation.

The weather was bumpy but called for no special concern and the

aircraft itself was reliable enough to demand only the routine

worries of the man's profession.

Robert Kinnaird did not regard the weather with the same

indifference. He knew as well as the man in the other seat that

there was no danger, but the knowledge didn't seem to help his

nervous system at the reflex level. His eyes and his semicircular

canals were feeding conflicting data to his brain. The Pacific was

garnished with convection cells that afternoon; some of them were

visible by virtue of the cumulus puffs which topped them, but

others could only make themselves felt. The young man had

several times been on the verge of suggesting that they climb

above the cumulus tops, but he knew what the answer would be.

Dulac, the pilot, had very professional ideas about fuel

conservation, even on a short trip such as this. His combat flying

over the same ocean during the early forties had given him a clear

idea of the magnitude of the water-to-land ratio even in areas

where islands were frequent. Kinnaird himself had insisted on

making the flight that afternoon, rather than early the following

morning. Dulac had warned him that it would be a bumpy ride. All

that Bob could do was feel irritated at the third member of the

group, and he knew that any such annoyance was both unjustified

and futile. He had known for years that the Hunter would do

nothing about such a trivial phenomenon as motion sickness.

The Hunter himself was not quite sure whether he should take

steps or not. The flight was, of course, Bob's own fault; there was

no practical reason why they couldn't have waited until the next

day. The human youth knew, from both precept and experience

that his alien companion would do everything in his power to

preserve him from real injury or illness, but that he did not want to

encourage Bob to lean at all heavily on the being's invisible

presence. The four pounds of jelly distributed throughout the

man's body cavities knew that total dependence on another being

could lead to even more trouble than seven years of partial

dependence already had. The Hunter, these days, tended to lean

over backward to avoid doing anything more than basic scratch-

plugging. He knew that he was overreacting, and that a little nerve

pressure to ease his host's nausea would probably do no real

harm; but, with Bob's health at its present level, he could not bring

himself to take a chance. After all, the trip couldn't take much

longer.

In an attempt to be consoling, he pointed this out to Bob. The

pilot could not hear him, since the sound of the Hunter's voice

originated in his host's middle-ear bones, vibrated by threads of

unhuman tissues but the response was less well concealed.

"Don't tell me it wont be long!" snapped Kinnaird. "It's been

three and a half eternities already, and the island isn't in sight yet.

Why didn't you talk me out of it?" His voice was not quite audible,

though he did speak—the Hunter was not a mind-reader, though

he could interpret the emotion behind most of Bob's involuntary

muscular and glandular responses. The pilot might possibly have

heard the mutter if the engines had not been running.

"What was I supposed to say?" retorted the Hunter. "I did point

out that Dulac was right about the roughness of the flight. Since

you have final say about any of our activities—unless I want to

exercise veto by knocking you out—there was nothing much more

I could do. You chose to face it—now face it. After all, there's

nothing in your stomach to lose even if your control does go."

"I wish you'd exercise that veto right now. At least I'd be

comfortable until we get down. I mean it, Hunter. I've never felt

worse in my life. Maybe the other trouble is contributing, but I

really don't think I can put up with it any longer."

The Hunter was tempted for a moment, but decided against

taking the chance.

"This isn't that sort emergency, and you know it," the alien said.

"I'm sorry you're so uncomfortable, but no one ever dies of motion

sickness; as your own people say. They—"

"If you say what I think you're about to, I'll get drunk the minute

we get home!" Bob interrupted, almost loudly enough to attract

Dulac's attention. The Hunter, whose main aim was to keep his

host's attention from his own stomach, refrained from repeating the

cliché, and simply changed the subject. The remark about alcohol

he assumed—and hoped—was not meant seriously; Bob definitely

knew better than to take chances with his symbiont's personal

coordination.

"Do you really think we can get anywhere without letting more

human beings know about me?" the alien asked. "We're going to

need a lot of help."

"I'm hoping for most from Doc Seever," Bob replied. "His hours

are kind of irregular, of course, since there's no way to predict

sickness or injury there on the island, but he certainly knows more

of what has to be known than anyone else there. Dad'll be too

busy to help, most of the time. We really should have some people

who are either a lot lower in the PFI chain of command and don't

have much but eight-to-five responsibilities, or people who don't

work for the outfit at all. The latter will be hard to find on Ell."

"Your mother is a competent person."

"She'll have to spend too much time looking after Silly."

"Your sister is six years old, now. She shouldn't need very

much of your mother's time—won't she be in school by now?"

"Maybe. I've almost forgotten when school keeps down here."

The discussion was interrupted by a tap on Bob's shoulder, felt

by both speakers. Both looked ahead, the Hunter having no choice

in the matter. The island which Bob regarded as home, though he

had been away from it well over half the time for the last ten years,

was clearly visible ahead, the low sun accenting the ridges which

formed the two arms of the L-shape, and gleaming from the

square outlines of the culture tanks which studded the lagoon.

Dulac banked a trifle to the right, and eased back on the throttles.

"Well be down in fifteen minutes," he assured his passenger.

"Good." Bob's approval was very sincere, "I'm sorry I talked you

into a. ride this bumpy, but at least we'll be home that much

sooner."

"You mean you will. It doesn't matter that much to me where I

sleep. What you've talked me into is having tomorrow off, thanks. I

was supposed to get this bucket to Ell by tomorrow night for work

the next day. As far as the ride was concerned, you did all the

suffering, so don't apologize to me."

Bob had done a little flying during his college years, though

nothing as large and heavy as the Dumbo had been involved. The

procedures of let down, pattern entry, and final approach were

meaningful enough to keep his attention off his stomach for the

remaining minutes of the flight. They swept above the western arm

of the island, almost above Bob's home, at five hundred feet,

though only the pilot could see the house—they were in a left bank

onto the downwind leg, and when they leveled on an eastward

heading, the land was behind and to their left. Final approach

carried the amphibian over the shorter leg of the L, only a few feet

above its ridge and the tanks it carried. Bob thought he recognized

a few faces on the long causeway which led out to the dock where

the tankers loaded, but didn't have time to be sure. He had the

impression that there were more houses in the village—the area at

the bend of the L, where the road from the causeway met the one

which ran the length of the island, but again he couldn't be sure;

there were too many trees. It was likely enough that there were.

Pacific Fuels, Incorporated, had been doing very well, especially

during the recent Korean troubles, and the population of the island

had been climbing, It had been about one hundred and seventy

when the Hunter had first come ashore on Ell nearly eight years

before, after his crash in the ocean outside the reef; now, both he

and his host knew, it was about fifty greater. Many of the new ones

were children, of course, but by no means all. The store, the

school, and the library had all been enlarged, and more adults

were needed to take care of the increased production facilities.

The landing area was marked off by buoys, and the numerous

boats and canoes on the lagoon were safely clear. Dulac touched

down within twenty yards of the runway's beginning, let the

amphibian come to a near halt, and manipulated his throttles to

bring the machine about. This brought the right cockpit seat,

occupied by Bob and the Hunter, toward the shore, and both

examined the island eagerly for changes; they had not been there

for two years. Even from here, however, the trees kept them from

seeing much. The long northwest leg of the island was still heavily

jungled. Boats could be examined more easily: Most of the ones

occupied by juveniles were now being paddled, towed, or sailed

toward the long dock, though their owners were careful to keep out

of the, airplane's way. The island population was of a mixed

descent that was largely Polynesian, and the adults were casual

about allowing children of all ages on and in the water, but took a

very dim view of their offspring's violating the more common-sense

safety rules of swimming and boat-handling. Few of the

youngsters would have risked being kept ashore for a week or so,

since they got no sympathy from their friends.

They even left tie-up room at the float, a twenty-yard-square

structure two hundred yards from shore connected by a slanting

gangway to the main dock. The raft itself was crowded with

youngsters by the time the amphibian nosed into the notch

provided for it, but they kept well back from the propellers as Dulac

cut his mixtures and let the blades whirl to a stop. Bob and the

Hunter knew most of the faces in the crowd, but were attracted to

a lanky, six-foot-plus blond youth who approached with a line in his

hands and began the job of mooring the aircraft It was Kenneth

Malmstrom, one of the quintet who had shared unknowingly in the

Hunter's police problem seven years before.

The sight of the young worker sent their minds in two different

directions as Bob and his symbiont made their way back toward

the hatch of the Catalina. Kinnaird himself was wondering whether

any of the others would be on the island. He knew that two of

them, Hay and Colby, were at colleges in Melbourne and Arizona

respectively; but Rice was working for PFI and might be around,

and Bob had been seriously considering his help in the new

problem.

The Hunter was not thinking that far ahead. He was wondering

whether Malmstrom, obviously available, could be trusted with the

information he would need to be really helpful. The alien was

inclined to doubt it. Of the five, Malmstrom had always seemed to

him the least mature and reliable. It might or might not be relevant

that he had not taken up the standing company offer of a college

education for any of the island children, in return for a six-year

contract after graduation. Many young people refused for reasons

quite unconnected with intelligence. Still, Malmstrom seemed

content with a low-responsibility job which demanded little of his

imagination and brains, and the Hunter hoped that Bob would not

get too enthusiastic on the strength of meeting the first of his old

friends after a two-year absence.

The enthusiasm was certainly there. The moment the taller

youth saw Bob at the hatch, he dropped the line he was holding

and sprang toward him.

"Bob! You old bookworm! Are you back for good?" He shook

hands violently, and he and Bob went through the back slapping

routine which still bothered the Hunter after more than seven

years. He knew the injury involved was negligible, but several

human lifetimes of habit are hard to break.

"I guess so," answered Kinnaird. "I haven't signed anything,

yet, but might as well get my degree worked off as soon as

possible. You knew I was coming, didn't you?"

"Sure, but not just when. We really didn't expect Dulac and his

Dumbo until tomorrow. When you were sighted, they phoned me

to get down here and earn my dividend. Maybe I ought to get a job

in the States, where work hours are a lot more definite. Out here

they expect things to be done whenever they have to be done, no

matter what time it is—even dinner time."

"How do you like what you're doing?" asked Bob.

"What more's to ask for? I sweat a few hours each day, get

paid for it, and do what I want the rest of the time."

The Hunter was not surprised by his answer, and hoped that

his host would take it as evidence of Malmstrom's unsuitability for

their project. Of course, there was no risk of premature disclosure

with the present crowd around them—unless Bob collapsed— but

it was always possible that words might escape which would be

hard to cover up later, unless Bob shared the Hunter's doubts

about "Shorty".

In the hope of forestalling any such slip, the alien put a question

of his own into Bob's ear.

"How about Rice? Is he here on Ell?" Kinnaird could have

answered his symbiont without attracting attention, but there

seemed no need this time. He simply repeated the question aloud.

"No, he's on Tahiti."

"Working for PFI, of course."

"Oh, sure. He gets over here every so often. I don't know just

what he does, but it doesn't let him get outside much. I haven't

seen anyone with lighter skin until you showed up. Doesn't the sun

shine in the States any more?"

"Some places. New England uses other things in its tourist

literature."

"Such as?"

"Oh, its brain factories." Malmstrom had finished mooring the

aircraft, and was helping Dulac get its cargo onto the float Bob had

been removing his own luggage at the same time, doing his best

to keep his physical condition from being too obvious. He did not

succeed very well; both he and the Hunter were disturbed at

Malmstrom's next remark.

“They don't make muscles there, do they? You're pretty far out

of shape, Bob old buddy."

Kinnaird gave a shrug, covering as well as he could.

"It's been quite a trip. I'll take you on in a few days, after I get

tested up."

The conversation was interrupted, to the relief of the Hunter

and his host, by a shrill voice from the main causeway above.

"Bob! What did you bring me?"

The sun was just on the horizon, in Bob's eyes as he looked

toward the dock, but he didn't need to see to identify the speaker.

Daphne, his six-year-old sister, was plunging down the gangway at

a rate which made the Hunter uneasy, even though he had no

direct responsibility for the small creature's well-being.

He remarked to his host, "If she had been around when I first

met you, I'd have been led badly astray in our little problem."

Bob chuckled; knowing what his symbiont meant The Hunter

had been seeking a fugitive of his own species who had escaped

into space. Pursued and pursuer had crashed near Ell; both had

made their ways ashore and found human hosts. The Hunter had

been faced with the task of locating the other without help from his

fellow police, without a background situation in which everybody

harbored a symbiont of his own and took for granted that everyone

else did, and without any of the technical equipment which would

normally have helped him to locate his quarry and separate it from

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摘要：

THROUGHTHEEYEOFANEEDLEHALCLEMENT(SequeltoNEEDLE)Contents1)Apology2)Generalities3)Details4)Complications5)ArrangementsandPeople6)WheninDoubt,Ask7)TheMoralofaWhiteLie8)Joke9)Routine,Modified10)JokeTwo11)JokeThree12)FirstAid13)Joker14)Reconstruction15)Professional16)Official,fromHeadquartersApologyEver...

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Hal Clement - Through the Eye of a Needle

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