Between the Strokes of Night

He moved over to the desk and picked up one of the two buff folders. His hand was thin, with long, bony fingers. Judith watched warily as he flipped open the folder and held it out toward her.

“In the past year, there have been seven requests to the U.N. from Dr. Judith Niles to conduct experiments on sleep research, using twelve new drugs that affect metabolic rate. The experiments would be done using human subjects — “ “ — all volunteers, as the applications made clear.”

“I know. But all rejected. Perhaps because three years ago, you led an experiment that ended disastrously. The recorded statements are quite clear. Using a combination of Tryptophil and a technique of EEG reinforcement and feedback, you succeeded in keeping three volunteers awake, alert, and apparently healthy for more than thirty days. But then there were complications. First there was atrophy of emotional responses, then atrophy of intellect. To quote one critical review of the study, ‘Dr. Niles has succeeded not in abolishing the need for sleep, but only in inducing Alzheimer’s disease. We do not need more senile dementia.’ “

“Damn it, if you know that much, you probably know who wrote that review. It was Dickson, whose application for identical research — under worse control conditions — was turned down in favor of mine.”

“Indeed I know it.” Salter Wherry smiled again. “My point is not to goad you. It is to ask you how long it will be, for whatever reason, before you are allowed to resume experiments with human subjects — even, as you say, with eager volunteers.”

Judith clenched her hands together hard. Her face was impassive. Just how much did he know? He was at the very brink of the new research.

“It could be years before such experiments are permitted,” she said at last. “Or it could be forever. Recall that delay is the deadliest form of denial.” He was pressing hard, dominating the meeting, and they both knew it. “And recall Ecclesiastes, that to every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under Heaven. Your time is now, your purpose here on this station. You should seize the opportunity. On PSS-One you will not be bound by the rules that crippled your institute on Earth. Here, you will create the rules.” Judith looked up at him. She had regained her self-control.

“You make all the rules here.”

Salter Wherry smiled, and for a second the sensuous mouth of the younger man reappeared. “You are misinformed. Let us admit there are certain rules that I insist on. All the rest are negotiable. Tell me what experiments you wish to conduct. I will be amazed if I do not agree to all of them. In writing. If this is the case, will you come here?”

He finally came to sit in a chair opposite.

“Perhaps,” she said. “Your offer is more than generous.”

“And if we are realistic, we will agree that things are not going well down on Earth? Very well. I will not press you. But I have one more question. You told Hans Gibbs that this meeting was an absolute essential: if there were no face-to-face encounter, there would be no agreement. Most unusual. He told me your reason, that your own credibility with the people who work for you would be diminished if you did not see me. But you and I know that is nonsensical. Your prestige and reputation carry enough weight with your staff to make a meeting with me neither necessary nor relevant. So. Why did you want to meet me?” Judith paused for a long time before she replied. Her next remark might anger Salter Wherry to the point where all his interest in relocating the Institute might vanish. But she needed to gain some psychological advantage. “I was told that you have certain personal tastes and preferences. That you would never, under any circumstances, deal directly with a woman. And that you had also become hopelessly reclusive. Your sexual habits are not my business, but I could not work for anyone with whom personal contact was denied. I could work with you only if we can meet to discuss problems.”

“Because you need my inputs?” he said at last. “Let us be realistic. In your work, my contribution would be no more than noise and distraction.” “That is not the point. My relationships demand a certain logic, independent of gender and personality. Otherwise they become unworkable.”

He was smiling again. “And you pretend there is logic in your present dealings with the impenetrable U.N. bureaucracy? It is better for your case if I do not pursue that.”