“You don’t have a place on Earth anymore,” said Noxon. “There’s a girl with eyes using your name and fingerprints, Deborah, and a charming philologist who has done rather a good job of keeping a dying discipline alive who needs no competing Dr. Wheaton.”
“Especially since there’s no record of my degrees or my publications,” said Wheaton. “It rather blocks my ability to influence what passes for thinking among this sorry crop of anthropologists.”
“I can offer you each your choice of improbable futures. You can voyage to the alien world and take part in the discussions, though not the decisions, about what we will do to prevent the destruction of Earth. Or you can voyage to Garden, my home, where I can promise you will have access to the full range of studies of—”
Deborah interrupted him. “For me, there’s no choice but the world where I can get new eyes.”
“You do understand,” said Noxon, “that you might be unable to control the facemask. It’s not a matter of what humans call ‘strength of will.’ Some of the strongest people I know have been unable to tame the mask. If you get eyes, but cease to be yourself, it would be a poor bargain.”
“Then you’ll go back in time and prevent it,” said Deborah.
“But there you’ll be in a world without replacement batteries, without charging stations.”
“They’re solar. We’re not Neanderthals.” She gave Wheaton an exaggerated wink, to prevent his objection to her pejorative use of “Neanderthal.”
“They’re solar, but not unbreakable,” said Noxon. “Garden is not a very good place to be blind.”
“I will bring spares,” said Deborah.
“And the technology of our era is available,” said Wheaton. “Each starship should have the ability to replicate her glasses.”
“I didn’t think of that,” said Noxon.
Deborah raised a hand. “Something else must be said, however. Just because I will go to Garden or nowhere, that doesn’t mean you must go with me, Father. The chance to study the evolution of two alien species—I think that not only will you enjoy that voyage more, you might actually be able to offer crucial insights as Noxon makes his decisions.”
“What insights?” said Wheaton. “I know Erectids and other anthropes, and nothing more.”
“You know how to see evolutionary patterns,” said Deborah. “You know how natural selection works
, how different societies promote the survival of some traits and not others. And there have been no human scientists on that road before you.”
“Do I detect a desire to be rid of this old man?” asked Wheaton with a laugh.
“Do I detect a barely-concealed plea for validation?” asked Deborah. “You know I love you, and I’d like to think your work would not be possible without me to clerk for you. But that isn’t true, and besides, you can have the ship pop out an extra expendable to take notes and look things up for you. Much more efficiently and accurately than I would.”
“Very well, I suppose I can work without you,” said Wheaton. But he looked grumpy, and that seemed to be a concealment of an underlying hurt.
“One world offers me eyes,” said Deborah, “and the other offers you a chance to do seminal work. If Noxon and Ram succeed in changing the future of that world, you will be the only scientist to observe the alien society as it existed before human interference.”
“We won’t be doing much observation,” said Noxon. “Particularly if we reach them at a time when they’re already technologically ahead of us. We’ll skedaddle instantly then.”
“I’ve found that brave dead scientists don’t contribute as much as prudent live ones,” said Wheaton. “I’ll study what there’s time to study.”
“It’s where you want to go,” said Deborah.
“All things being equal. But . . . nineteen wallfolds. A species of merpeople! Either world will do for me.”
Deborah made no answer, even though both Noxon and Wheaton looked at her, waiting.
“You know I have a choice myself,” said Noxon. “There are two of me now. One who went through the nuclear blast but managed to heal from it. One who didn’t.”
“Which are you?” asked Deborah.
“I’m the one who was warned and saved from the blast,” said Noxon. “But my twin and I have worked it out. It’s quite simple, really. There’s some risk that he suffered damage to some or all of his gametes. The facemask heals damage it can detect, but it’s possible for gametes to be motile and yet not viable, or viable but mutated.”
“Ouch,” said Deborah.
“Mine, however, were unharmed,” said Noxon. “Not that there’s no risk of mutation or deformation—any gamete can be damaged by the vicissitudes of chance. But . . .”