Larry Niven - The Long ARM of Gil Hamilton (SS col)

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The Long ARM of Gil Hamilton -- Larry Niven

(Version 2002.09.01 -- Done)

Contents

Death by Ecstasy

The Defenseless Dead

ARM

DEATH BY ECSTASY

FIRST CAME THE routine request for a Breach of Privacy permit. A police

officer took down the details and forwarded the request to a clerk, who saw

that the tape reached the appropriate civic judge. The judge was reluctant,

for privacy is a precious thing in a world of eighteen billion; but in the end

he could find no reason to refuse. On November 2nd, 2123, he granted the

permit.

The tenant's rent was two weeks in arrears. If the manager of Monica

Apartments had asked for eviction he would have been refused. But Owen

Jennison just did not answer his doorbell or his room phone. Nobody could

recall seeing him in many weeks. Apparently the manager wanted to know that he

was all right.

And so he was allowed to use his passkey, with an officer standing by.

And so they found the tenant of 1809.

And when they looked in his wallet, they called me.

I was at my desk in ARM's Headquarters, making useless notes and wishing

it were lunchtime.

At this stage the Loren case was all correlate-and-wait. It involved an

organlegging gang, apparently run by a single man, yet big enough to cover

half the North American west coast. We had considerable data on the gang-

methods of operation, centers of activity, a few former customers, even a

tentative handful of names -- but nothing that would give us an excuse to act.

So it was a matter of shoving what we had into the computer, watching the few

suspected associates of the ganglord Loren, and waiting for a break.

The months of waiting were ruining my sense of involvement.

My phone buzzed.

I put the pen down and said, "Gil Hamilton."

A small dark face regarded me with soft black eyes. "I am Detective-

Inspector Julio Ordaz of the Los Angeles Police Department. Are you related to

an Owen Jennison?"

"Owen? No, we're not related. Is he in trouble?"

"You do know him, then."

"Sure I know him. Is he here, on Earth?"

"It would seem so." Ordaz had no accent, but the lack of colloquialisms

in his speech made him sound vaguely foreign. "We will need positive

identification, Mr. Hamilton. Mr. Jennison's ident lists you as next of kin."

"That's funny. I -- back in a minute. What's happened? Is Owen dead?"

"Somebody is dead, Mr. Hamilton. He carried Mr. Jennison's ident in his

wallet."

"Okay. Now, Owen Jennison was a citizen of the Belt. This may have

interworld complications. That makes it ARM's business. Where's the body?"

"We found him in an apartment rented under his own name. Monica

Apartments, Lower Los Angeles, room 1809."

"Good. Don't move anything you haven't moved already. I'll be right

over."

Monica Apartments was a nearly featureless concrete block, eighty

stories tall, a thousand feet across the edges of its square base. Lines of

small balconies gave the sides a sculptured look, above a forty-foot inset

ledge that would keep tenants from dropping objects on pedestrians. A hundred

buildings just like it made Lower Los Angeles look lumpy from the air.

Inside was a lobby done in anonymous modern. Lots of metal and plastic

showing; lightweight, comfortable chairs without arms; big ash trays; plenty

of indirect lighting; a low ceiling; no wasted space. The whole room might

have been stamped out with a die. It wasn't supposed to look small, but it

did, and that warned you what the rooms would look like.

I found the manager's office and the manager, a soft-looking man with

watery-blue eyes. His conservative paper suit, dark red, seemed chosen to

render him invisible, as did the style of his brown hair, worn long and combed

straight back without a part. "Nothing like this has ever happened here," he

confided as he led me to the elevator banks. "Nothing. It would have been bad

enough without his being a Belter, but now -- " He cringed at the thought.

"Newsmen. They'll smother us."

The elevator was coffin-sized, but with the handrails on the inside. It

went up fast and smooth. I stepped out into the long, narrow hallway.

What would Owen have been doing in a place like this? Machinery lived

here, not people.

Maybe it wasn't Owen. Ordaz had been reluctant to commit himself.

Besides, there's no law against picking pockets. You couldn't enforce such a

law on this crowded planet. Everyone on Earth was a pickpocket.

Sure. Someone had died carrying Owen's wallet.

I walked down the hallway to 1809.

It was Owen who sat grinning in the armchair. I took one good look at

him, enough to be sure, and then I looked away and didn't look back. But the

rest of it was even more unbelievable.

No Belter could have taken that apartment. I was born in Kansas; but

even I felt the awful anonymous chill. It would have driven Owen bats.

"I don't believe it," I said.

"Did you know him well, Mr. Hamilton?"

"About as well as two men can know each other. He and I spent three

years mining rocks in the main asteroid belt. You don't keep secrets under

those conditions."

"Yet you didn't know he was on Earth."

"That's what I can't understand. Why the blazes didn't he phone me if he

was in trouble?"

"You're an ARM," said Ordaz. "An operative in the United Nations

Police."

He had a point. Owen was as honorable as any man I knew; but honor isn't

the same in the Belt. Belters think flatlanders are all crooks. They don't

understand that to a flatlander, picking pockets is a game of skill. Yet a

Belter sees smuggling as the same kind of game, with no dishonesty involved.

He balances the thirty percent tariff against possible confiscation of his

cargo, and if the odds are right he gambles.

Owen could have been doing something that would look honest to him but

not to me.

"He could have been in something sticky," I admitted. "But I can't see

him killing himself over it. And...not here. He wouldn't have come here."

1809 was a living room and a bathroom and a closet. I'd glanced into the

bathroom, knowing what I would find. It was the size of a comfortable shower

stall. An adjustment panel outside the door would cause it to extrude various

appurtenances in memory plastic, to become a washroom, a shower stall, a

toilet, a dressing room, a steam cabinet. Luxurious in everything but size, if

you pushed the right buttons.

The living room was more of the same. A King bed was invisible behind a

wall. The kitchen alcove, with basin and oven and grill and toaster, would

fold into another wall; the sofa, chairs and tables would vanish into the

floor. One tenant and three guests would make a crowded cocktail party, a cozy

dinner gathering, a closed poker game. Card table, dinner table, coffee table

were all there, surrounded by the appropriate chairs; but only one set at a

time would emerge from the floor. There was no refrigerator, no freezer, no

bar. If a tenant needed food or drink, he phoned down, and the supermarket on

the third floor would send it up.

The tenant of such an apartment had his comfort. But he owned nothing.

There was room for him; there was none for his possessions. This was one of

the inner apartments. An age ago there would have been an air shaft; but air

shafts took up expensive room. The tenant didn't even have a window. He lived

in a comfortable box.

Just now the items extruded were the overstuffed reading armchair, two

small side tables, a footstool, and the kitchen alcove. Owen Jennison sat

grinning in the armchair. Naturally he grinned. Little more than dried skin

covered the natural grin of his skull.

"It's a small room," said Ordaz, "but not too small. Millions of people

live this way. In any case, a Belter would hardly be a claustrophobe."

"No. Owen flew a singleship before he joined us. Three months at a

stretch, in a cabin so small you couldn't stand up with the airlock closed.

Not claustrophobia, but -- " I swept my arm about the room. "What do you see

that's his?"

Small as it was, the closet was nearly empty. A set of street clothes, a

paper shirt, a pair of shoes, a small brown overnight case. All new. The few

items in the bathroom medicine chest had been equally new and equally

anonymous.

Ordaz said, "Well?"

"Belters are transients. They don't own much, but what they do own, they

guard. Small possessions, relics, souvenirs. I can't believe he wouldn't have

had something."

Ordaz lifted an eyebrow. "His space suit?"

"You think that's unlikely? It's not. The inside of his pressure suit is

a Belter's home. Sometimes it's the only home he's got. He spends a fortune

decorating it. If he loses his suit, he's not a Belter any more.

"No, I don't insist he'd have brought his suit. But he'd have had

something. His phial of marsdust. The bit of nickel-iron they took out of his

chest. Or, if he left all his souvenirs home, he'd have picked up things on

Earth. But in this room -- there's nothing."

"Perhaps," Ordaz suggested delicately, "he didn't notice his

surroundings."

And somehow that brought it all home.

Owen Jennison sat grinning in a water-stained silk dressing gown. His

space-darkened face lightened abruptly beneath his chin, giving way to normal

suntan. His blond hair, too long, had been cut Earth style; no trace remained

of the Belter strip cut he'd worn all his life. A month's growth of untended

beard covered half his face. A small black cylinder protruded from the top of

his head. An electric cord trailed from the top of the cylinder and ran to a

small wall socket.

The cylinder was a droud, a current addict's transformer.

I stepped closer to the corpse and bent to look. The droud was a

standard make, but it had been altered. Your standard current addict's droud

will pass only a trickle of current into the brain. Owen must have been

getting ten times the usual charge, easily enough to damage his brain in a

month's time.

I reached out and touched the droud with my imaginary hand.

Ordaz was standing quietly beside me, letting me make my examination

without interruption. Naturally he had no way of knowing about my restricted

psi powers.

Restricted was the operative word. I had two psychic powers: telekinesis

and esper. With the esper sense I could sense the shapes of objects at a

distance; but the distance was the reach of an extra right arm. I could lift

small objects, if they were no further away than the fingertips of an

imaginary right hand. The restriction was a flaw in my own imagination. Since

I could not believe my imaginary hand would reach further than that...it

wouldn't.

Even so limited a psi power can be useful. With my imaginary fingertips

I touched the droud in Owen's head, then ran them down to a tiny hole in his

scalp, and further.

It was a standard surgical job. Owen could have had it done anywhere. A

hole in his scalp, invisible under the hair, nearly impossible to find even if

you knew what you were looking for. Even your best friends wouldn't know,

unless they caught you with the droud plugged in. But the tiny hole marked a

bigger plug set in the bone of the skull. I touched the ecstasy plug with my

imaginary fingertips, then ran them down the hair-fine wire going deep into

Owen's brain, down into the pleasure center.

No, the extra current hadn't killed him. What had killed Owen was his

lack of will power. He had been unwilling to get up.

He had starved to death sitting in that chair. There were plastic

squeezebottles all around his feet and a couple still on the end table. All

empty. They must have been full a month ago. Owen hadn't died of thirst. He

had died of starvation, and his death had been planned.

Owen, my crewmate. Why hadn't he come to me? I'm half a Belter myself.

Whatever his trouble, I'd have gotten him out somehow. A little smuggling --

what of it? Why had he arranged to tell me only after it was over?

The apartment was so clean, so clean. You had to bend close to smell the

death; the air conditioning whisked it all away.

He'd been very methodical. The kitchen was open so that a catheter could

lead from Owen to the sink. He'd given himself enough water to last out the

month; he'd paid his rent a month in advance. He'd cut the droud cord by hand,

and he'd cut it short deliberately tethering himself to a wall socket beyond

reach of the kitchen.

A complex way to die, but rewarding in its way. A month of ecstasy, a

month of the highest physical pleasure man can attain. I could imagine him

giggling every time he remembered he was starving to death. With food only a

few footsteps away...but he'd have to pull out the droud to reach it. Perhaps

he postponed the decision, and postponed it again...

Owen and I and Homer Chandrasekhar, we had lived for three years in a

cramped shell surrounded by vacuum. What was there to know about Owen Jennison

that I hadn't known? Where was the weakness we did not share? If Owen had done

this, so could I. And I was afraid.

"Very neat," I whispered. "Belter neat."

"Typically Belter, would you say?"

"I would not. Belters don't commit suicide. Certainly not this way. If a

Belter had to go, he'd blow his ship's drive and die like a star. The neatness

is typical. The result isn't."

"Well," said Ordaz. "Well." He was uncomfortable. The facts spoke for

themselves, yet he was reluctant to call me a liar. He fell back on formality.

"Mr. Hamilton, do you identify this man as Owen Jennison?"

"It's him." He'd always been a touch overweight, yet I'd recognized him

the moment I saw him. "But let's be sure." I'd pulled the dirty dressing gown

back from Owen's shoulder. A near-perfect circle of scar tissue, eight inches

across, spread over the left side of his chest. "See that?"

"We noticed it, yes. An old burn?"

"Owen's the only man I know who could show you a meteor scar on his

skin. It blasted him in the shoulder one day while he was outside the ship.

Sprayed vaporized pressure-suit steel all over his skin. The doc pulled a tiny

grain of nickel-iron from the center of the scar, just below the skin. Owen

always carried that grain of nickel-iron. Always," I said, looking at Ordaz.

"We didn't find it."

"Okay."

"I'm sorry to put you through this, Mr. Hamilton. It was you who

insisted we leave the body in situ."

"Yes. Thank you."

Owen grinned at me from the reading chair. I felt the pain, in my throat

and in the pit of my stomach. Once I had lost my right arm. Losing Owen felt

the same way.

"I'd like to know more about this," I said. "Will you let me know the

details as soon as you get them?"

"Of course. Through the ARM's office?"

"Yes." This wasn't ARM's business, despite what I'd told Ordaz, but

ARM's prestige would help. "I want to know why Owen died. Maybe he just

cracked up...culture shock or something. But if someone hounded him to death,

I'll have his blood."

"Surely the administration of justice is better left to -- " Ordaz

stopped, confused. Did I speak as an ARM or as a citizen?

I left him wondering.

The lobby held a scattering of tenants entering and leaving elevators or

just sitting around. I stood outside the elevator for a moment, searching

passing faces for the erosion of personality that must be there.

Mass-produced comfort. Room to sleep and eat and watch tridee, but no

room to be anyone. Living here, one would own nothing. What kind of people

would live like that? They should have looked all alike, moved in unison, like

the string of images in a barber's mirrors.

Then I spotted wavy brown hair and a dark red paper suit. The manager? I

had to get close before I was sure. His face was the face of a permanent

stranger.

He saw me coming and smiled without enthusiasm. "Oh, hello,

Mr...uh...Did you find..." He couldn't think of the right question.

"Yes," I said, answering it anyway. "But I'd like to know some things.

Owen Jennison lived here for six weeks, right?"

"Six weeks and two days, before we opened his room."

"Did he ever have visitors?"

The man's eyebrows went up. We'd drifted in the direction of his office,

and I was close enough to read the name on the door: JASPER MILLER, Manager.

"Of course not," he said. "Anyone would have noticed that something was

wrong."

"You meant he took the room for the express purpose of dying? You saw

him once, and never again?"

"I suppose he might...no, wait." The manager thought deeply. "No. He

registered on a Thursday. I noticed the Belter tan, of course. Then on Friday

he went out. I happened to see him pass."

"Was that the day he got the droud? No, skip it, you wouldn't know that.

Was it the last time you saw him go out?"

"Yes, it was."

"Then he could have had visitors late Thursday or early Friday."

The manager shook his head, very positively.

"Why not?"

"You see, Mr., uh..."

"Hamilton."

"We have a holo camera on every floor, Mr. Hamilton. It takes a picture

of each tenant the first time he goes to his room, and then never again.

Privacy is one of the services a tenant buys with his room." The manager drew

himself up a little as he said this. "For the same reason, the holo camera

takes a picture of anyone who is not a tenant. The tenants are thus protected

from unwarranted intrusions."

"And there were no visitors to any of the rooms on Owen's floor?"

"No, sir, there were not."

"Your tenants are a solitary bunch."

"Perhaps they are."

"I suppose a computer in the basement decides who is and is not a

tenant."

"Of course."

"So for six weeks Owen Jennison sat alone in his room. In all that time

he was totally ignored."

Miller tried to turn his voice cold, but he was too nervous. "We try to

give our guests privacy. If Mr. Jennison had wanted help of any kind he had

only to pick up the house phone. He could have called me, or the pharmacy, or

the supermarket downstairs."

"Well, thank you, Mr. Miller. That's all I wanted to know. I wanted to

know how Owen Jennison could wait six weeks to die while nobody noticed."

Miller swallowed. "He was dying all that time?"

"Yah."

"We had no way of knowing. How could we? I don't see how you can blame

us."

"I don't either," I said, and brushed by. Miller had been close enough,

so I had lashed out at him. Now I was ashamed. The man was perfectly right.

Owen could have had help if he'd wanted it.

I stood outside, looking up at the jagged blue line of sky that showed

between the tops of the buildings. A taxi floated into view, and I beeped my

clicker at it, and it dropped.

I went back to ARM headquarters. Not to work -- I could not have done

any work, not under the circumstances -- but to talk to Julie.

Julie. A tall girl, pushing thirty, with green eyes and long hair

streaked red and gold. And two wide brown forceps marks above her right knee;

but they weren't showing now. I looked into her office, through the one-way

glass, and watched her at work.

She sat in a contour couch, smoking. Her eyes were closed. Sometimes her

brow would furrow as she concentrated. Sometimes she would snatch a glance at

the clock, then close her eyes again.

I didn't interrupt her. I knew the importance of what she was doing.

Julie. She wasn't beautiful. Her eyes were a little too far apart, her

chin too square, her mouth too wide. It didn't matter. Because Julie could

read minds.

She was the ideal date. She was everything a man needed. A year ago, the

day after the night I killed my first man, I had been in a terribly

destructive mood. Somehow Julie had turned it into a mood of manic

exhilaration. We'd run wild through a supervised anarchy park, running up an

enormous bill. We'd hiked five miles without going anywhere, facing backward

on a downtown slidewalk. At the end we'd been utterly fatigued, too tired to

think...But two weeks ago it had been a warm, cuddly, comfortable night. Two

people happy with each other; no more than that. Julie was what you needed,

anytime, anywhere.

Her male harem must have been the largest in history. To pick up on the

thoughts of a male ARM, Julie had to be in love with him. Luckily there was

room in her for a lot of love. She didn't demand that we be faithful. A good

half of us were married. But there had to be love for each of Julie's men, or

Julie couldn't protect him.

She was protecting us now. Each fifteen minutes, Julie was making

contact with a specific ARM agent. Psi powers are notoriously undependable,

but Julie was an exception. If we got in a hole, Julie was always there to get

us out...provided some idiot didn't interrupt her at work.

So I stood outside, waiting, with a cigarette in my imaginary hand.

The cigarette was for practice, to stretch the mental muscles. In its

way my "hand" was as dependable as Julie's mind-touch, possibly because of its

very limitations. Doubt your psi powers and they're gone. A rigidly defined

third arm was more reasonable than some warlock ability to make objects move

by wishing at them. I knew how an arm felt, and what it would do.

Why do I spend so much time lifting cigarettes? Well, it's the biggest

weight I can lift without strain. And there's another reason...something

taught me by Owen.

At ten minutes to fifteen, Julie opened her eyes, rolled out of the

contour couch and came to the door. "Hi, Gil," she said sleepily. "Trouble?"

"Yah. A friend of mine just died. I thought you'd better know." I handed

her a cup of coffee.

She nodded. We had a date tonight, and this would change its character.

Knowing that, she probed lightly.

"Jesus!" she said, recoiling. "How...how horrible. I'm terribly sorry,

Gil. Date's off, right?"

"Unless you want to join the ceremonial drunk."

She shook her head vigorously. "I didn't know him. It wouldn't be

proper. Besides, you'll be wallowing in your own memories, Gil. A lot of them

will be private. I'd cramp your style if you knew I was there to probe. Now if

Homer Chandrasekhar were here, it'd be different."

"I wish he were. He'll have to throw his own drunk. Maybe with some of

Owen's girls, if they're around."

"You know what I feel," she said.

"Just what I do."

"I wish I could help."

"You always help." I glanced at the clock. "Your coffee break's about

over."

"Slave driver." Julie took my earlobe between thumb and forefinger. "Do

him proud," she said, and went back to her soundproof room.

She always helps. She doesn't even have to speak. Just knowing that

Julie has read my thoughts, that someone understands...that's enough.

All alone at three in the afternoon, I started my ceremonial drunk.

The ceremonial drunk is a young custom, not yet tied down by formality.

There is no set duration. No specific toasts must be given. Those who

participate must be close friends of the deceased, but there is no set number

of participants.

I started at the Luau, a place of cool blue light and running water.

Outside it was fifteen-thirty in the afternoon, but inside it was evening in

the Hawaiian Islands of centuries ago. Already the place was half full. I

picked a corner table with considerable elbow room and dialed for a Luau Grog.

It came, cold, brown and alcoholic, its straw tucked into a cone of ice.

There had been three of us at Cubes Forsythe's ceremonial drunk, one

black Ceres night four years ago. A sorry group we were, too; Owen and me and

the widow of our third crewman. Gwen Forsythe blamed us for her husband's

death. I was just out of the hospital with a right arm that ended at the

shoulder, and I blamed Cubes and Owen and myself, all at once. Even Owen had

turned dour and introspective. We couldn't have picked a worse trio, or a

worse night for it if we'd tried.

But custom called, and we were there. Then as now, I found myself

probing my own personality for the wound that was a missing crewman, a missing

friend. Introspecting.

Gilbert Hamilton. Born of flatlander parents, in April, 2093, in Topeka,

Kansas. Born with two arms and no sign of wild talents.

Flatlander: a Belter term referring to Earthmen, and particularly to

Earthmen who had never seen space. I'm not sure my parents ever looked at the

stars. They managed the third largest farm in Kansas, ten square miles of

arable land between two wide strips of city paralleling two strips of

turnpike. We were city people, like all flatlanders, but when the crowds got

to be too much for my brothers and me, we had vast stretches of land to be

alone in. Ten square miles of playground, with nothing to hamper us but the

crops and automachinery.

We looked at the stars, my brothers and I. You couldn't see stars from

the city; the lights hide them. Even in the fields you couldn't see them

around the lighted horizon. But straight overhead, they were there: black sky

scattered with bright dots, and sometimes a flat white moon.

At twenty I gave up my UN citizenship to become a Belter. I wanted

stars, and the Belt government holds title to most of the solar system. There

are fabulous riches in the rocks, riches belonging to a scattered civilization

of a few hundred thousand Belters; and I wanted my share of that, too.

It wasn't easy. I wouldn't be eligible for a singleship license for ten

years. Meanwhile I would be working for others and learning to avoid mistakes

before they killed me. Half the flatlanders who join the Belt die in space

before they can earn their licenses.

I mined tin on Mercury and exotic chemicals from Jupiter's atmosphere. I

hauled ice from Saturn's rings and quick-silver from Europa. One year our

pilot made a mistake pulling up to a new rock, and we damn near had to walk

home. Cubes Forsythe was with us then. He managed to fix the com laser and aim

it at Icarus to bring us help. Another time the mechanic who did the

maintenance job on our ship forgot to replace an absorber, and we all got

roaring drunk on the alcohol that built up in our breathing-air. The three of

us caught the mechanic six months later. I hear he lived.

Most of the time I was part of a three-man crew. The members changed

constantly. When Owen Jennison joined us he replaced a man who had finally

earned his singleship license and couldn't wait to start hunting rocks on his

own. He was too eager. I learned later that he'd made one round trip and half

of another.

Owen was my age, but more experienced, a Belter born and bred. His blue

eyes and blond cockatoo's crest were startling against the dark of his Belter

tan, the tan that ended so abruptly where his neck ring cut off the space-

intense sunlight his helmet let through. He was permanently chubby, but in

free fall it was as if he'd been born with wings. I took to copying his way of

moving, much to Cubes' amusement.

I didn't make my own mistake until I was twenty-six.

We were using bombs to put a rock in a new orbit. A contract job. The

technique is older than fusion drives, as old as early Belt colonization, and

it's still cheaper and faster than using a ship's drive to tow the rock. You

use industrial fusion bombs small and clean, and you get them so that each

explosion deepens the crater to channel the force of later blasts.

We'd set four blasts already, four white fireballs that swelled and

faded as they rose. When the fifth blast went off we were hovering nearby on

the other side of the rock.

The fifth blast shattered the rock.

Cubes had set the bomb. My own mistake was a shared one, because any of

the three of us should have had the sense to take off right then. Instead, we

watched, cursing, as valuable oxygen-bearing rock became near-valueless

shards. We watched the shards spread slowly into a cloud...and while we

watched, one fastmoving shard reached us. Moving too slowly to vaporize when

it hit, it nonetheless sheered through a triple crystal-iron hull, slashed

through my upper arm, and pinned Cubes Forsythe to a wall by his own heart.

A couple of nudists came in. They stood blinking among the booths while

their eyes adjusted to the blue twilight, then converged with glad cries on

the group two tables over. I watched and listened with an eye and an ear,

thinking how different flatlander nudists were from Belter nudists. These all

looked alike. They all had muscles, they had no interesting scars, they

carried their credit cards in identical shoulder pouches, and they all shaved

the same areas.

...We always went nudist in the big bases. Most people did. It was a

natural reaction to the pressure suits we wore day and night while out in the

rocks. Get him into a short-sleeve environment, and your normal Belter sneers

at a shirt. But it's only for comfort. Give him a good reason, and your Belter

will don shirt and pants as quickly as the next guy.

But not Owen. After he got that meteor scar, I never saw him wear a

shirt. Not just in the Ceres domes but anywhere there was air to breath. He

just had to show that scar.

A cool blue mood settled on me, and I remembered...

...Owen Jennison lounging on a corner of my hospital bed, telling me of

the trip back. I could not remember anything after that rock sheered through

my arm.

I should have bled to death in seconds. Owen hadn't given me the chance.

The wound was ragged; Owen had sliced it clean to the shoulder with one swipe

of a com laser. Then he'd tied a length of fiberglass curtain over the flat

surface and knotted it tight under my remaining armpit. He told me about

putting me under two atmospheres of pure oxygen as a substitute for replacing

the blood I'd lost. He told me how he'd reset the fusion drive for four gees

to get me back in time. By rights we should have gone up in a cloud of

starfire and glory.

"So there goes my reputation. The whole Belt knows how I rewired our

drive. A lot of 'em figure if I'm stupid enough to risk my own life like that,

I'd risk theirs too."

"So you're not safe to travel with."

"Just so. They're starting to call me Four Gee Jennison."

"You think you've got problems? I can just see how it'll be when I get

back to this bed. 'You do something stupid, Gil?' The hell of it is, it was

stupid."

"So lie a little."

"Uh huh. Can we sell the ship?"

"Nope. Gwen inherited a third interest in it from Cubes. She won't

sell."

"Then we're effectively broke."

"Except for the ship. We need another crewman."

"Correction. You need two crewmen. Unless you want to fly with a one-

armed man. I can't afford a transplant."

Owen hadn't tried to offer me a loan. That would have been insulting,

even if he'd had the money. "What's wrong with a prosthetic?"

"An iron arm? Sorry, no. I'm squeamish."

Owen had looked at me strangely, but all he'd said was, "Well, we'll

wait a bit. Maybe you'll change your mind."

He hadn't pressured me. Not then, and not later, after I'd left the

hospital and taken an apartment while I waited to get used to a missing arm.

If he thought I would eventually settle for a prosthetic, he was mistaken.

Why? It's not a question I can answer. Others obviously feel

differently; there are millions of people walking around with metal and

plastic and silicone parts. Part man, part machine, and how do they themselves

know which is the real person?

I'd rather be dead than part metal. Call it a quirk. Call it, even, the

same quirk that makes my skin crawl when I find a place like Monica

Apartments. A human being should be all human. He should have habits and

possessions peculiarly his own, he should not try to look like or to behave

like anyone but himself.

So there I was, Gil the Arm, learning to eat with my left hand.

An amputee never entirely loses what he's lost. My missing fingers

itched. I moved to keep from barking my missing elbow on sharp corners. I

reached for things, then swore when they did not come.

Owen had hung around, though his own emergency funds must have been

running low. I hadn't offered to sell my third of the ship, and he hadn't

asked.

There had been a girl. Now I'd forgotten her name. One night I was at

her place waiting for her to get dressed -- a dinner date -- and I'd happened

to see a nail file she'd left on the table. I'd picked it up. I'd almost tried

to file my nails, but remembered in time. Irritated, I had tossed the file

back on the table -- and missed.

Like an idiot I'd tried to catch it with my right hand.

And I'd caught it.

I'd never suspected myself of having psychic powers. You have to be in

the right frame of mind to use a psi power. But who had ever had a better

opportunity than I did that night, with a whole section of brain tuned to the

nerves and muscles of my right arm, and no right arm?

I'd held the nail file in my imaginary hand. I'd felt it, just as I'd

felt my missing fingernails getting too long. I had run my thumb along the

rough steel surface; I had turned the file in my fingers. Telekinesis for

lift, esper for touch.

"That's it," Owen had said the next day. "That's all we need. One

crewman, and you with your eldritch powers. You practice, see how strong you

can get that lift. I'll go find a sucker."

"He'll have to settle for a sixth of net. Cubes' widow will want her

share."

"Don't worry. I'll swing it."

"Don't worry!" I'd waved a pencil stub at him. Even in Ceres' gentle

gravity, it was as much as I could lift -- then. "You don't think TK and esper

can make do for a real arm, do you?"

"It's better than a real arm. You'll see. You'll be able to reach

through your suit with it without losing pressure. What Belter can do that?"

"Sure."

"What the hell do you want, Gil? Someone should give you your arm back?

You can't have that. You lost it fair and square, through stupidity. Now it's

your choice. Do you fly with an imaginary arm, or do you go back to Earth?"

"I can't go back. I don't have the fare."

"Well?"

"Okay, okay. Go find us a crewman. Someone I can impress with my

imaginary arm."

I sucked meditatively on a second Luau grog. By now all the booths were

full, and a second layer was forming around the bar. The voices made a

continuous hypnotic uproar. Cocktail hour had arrived.

...He'd swung it, all right. On the strength of my imaginary arm, Owen

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TheLongARMofGilHamilton--LarryNiven(Version2002.09.01--Done)ContentsDeathbyEcstasyTheDefenselessDeadARMDEATHBYECSTASYFIRSTCAMETHEroutinerequestforaBreachofPrivacypermit.Apoliceofficertookdownthedetailsandforwardedtherequesttoaclerk,whosawthatthetapereachedtheappropriatecivicjudge.Thejudgewasreluctan...

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Larry Niven - The Long ARM of Gil Hamilton (SS col)

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