"I hope," General Titus was saying, "that you'll accept the decoration now, Mr. Granthan. It will be the first time in history that a civilian has been accorded this honor—and you deserve it."
I was lying in a clean white bed, propped up by big soft pillows, with a couple of good-looking nurses hovering a few feet away. I was in a mood to tolerate even Titus.
"Thanks, General," I said. "I suggest you give the medal to the volunteer who came in to gas me. He knew what he was going up against; I didn't."
"It's over, now, Granthan," Kayle said. He attempted to beam, settled for a frosty smile. "You surely understand—"
"Understanding," I said. "That's all we need to turn this planet—and a lot of other ones—into the kind of worlds the human mind needs to expand into."
"You're tired, Granthan," Kayle said. "You get some rest. In a few weeks you'll be back on the job, as good as new."
"That's where the key is," I said. "In our minds; there's so much there, and we haven't even scratched the surface. To the mind nothing is impossible. Matter is an illusion, space and time are just convenient fictions—"
"I'll leave the medal here, Mr. Granthan. When you feel equal to it, we'll make the official presentation. Television . . ."
He faded off as I closed my eyes and thought about things that had been clamoring for attention ever since I'd met the Gool, but hadn't had time to explore. My arm . . .
I felt my way along it—from inside—tracing the area of damage, watching as the bodily defenses worked away, toiling to renew, replace. It was a slow, mindless process. But if I helped a little . . .
It was easy. The pattern was there. I felt the tissues renew themselves, the skin regenerate.
The bone was more difficult. I searched out the necessary minerals, diverted blood; the broken ends knit . . .
The nurse was bending over me, a bowl of soup in her hand.
* * *
"You've been asleep for a long time, sir," she said, smiling. "How about some nice chicken broth now?"
I ate the soup and asked for more. A doctor came and peeled back my bandages, did a double-take, and rushed away. I looked. The skin was new and pink, like a baby's—but it was all there. I flexed my right leg; there was no twinge of pain.
I listened for a while as the doctors gabbled, clucked, probed and made pronouncements. Then I closed my eyes again. I thought about the matter transmitter. The government was sitting on it, of course. A military secret of the greatest importance, Titus called it. Maybe someday the public would hear about it; in the meantime—
"How about letting me out of here?" I said suddenly. A pop-eyed doctor with a fringe of gray hair blinked at me, went back to fingering my arm. Kayle hove into view.
"I want out," I said. "I'm recovered, right? So now just give me my clothes."
"Now, now, just relax, Granthan. You know it's not as simple as that. There are a lot of matters we must go over."
"The war's over," I said. "You admitted that. I want out."
"Sorry." Kayle shook his head. "That's out of the question."
"Doc," I said. "Am I well?"
"Yes," he said. "Amazing case. You're as fit as you'll ever be; I've never—"
"I'm afraid you'll have to resign yourself to being here for a while longer, Granthan," Kayle said. "After all, we can't—"
"Can't let the secret of matter transmission run around loose, hey? So until you figure out the angles, I'm a prisoner, right?"
"I'd hardly call it that, Granthan. Still . . ."
I closed my eyes. The matter transmitter—a strange device. A field, not distorting space, but accentuating certain characteristics of a matter field in space-time, subtly shifting relationships . . .
Just as the mind could compare unrelated data, draw from them new concepts, new parallels . . .
The circuits of the matter transmitter . . . and the patterns of the mind . . .
The exocosm and the endocosm, like the skin and the orange, everywhere in contact . . .
Somewhere there was a beach of white sand, and dunes with graceful sea-oats that leaned in a gentle wind. There was blue water to the far horizon, and a blue sky, and nowhere were there any generals with medals and television cameras, or flint-eyed bureaucrats with long schemes . . .
And with this gentle folding . . . thus . . .
And a pressure here . . . so . . .
I opened my eyes, raised myself on one elbow—and saw the sea. The sun was hot on my body, but not too hot, and the sand was white as sugar. Far away, a seagull tilted, circling.
A wave rolled in, washed my foot in cool water.
I lay on my back, and looked up at white clouds in a blue sky, and smiled—and then laughed aloud.
Distantly the seagull's cry echoed my laughter.