TRINITY
                                                 Nancy Kress

    We return to the subject of God in this novella about a scientific project that attempts to bring humans
into verifiable contact with the Greater Being. It's a bold, even fantastic, idea… and one that could give rise
to some very human dangers.

   Nancy Kress's first novel was The Prince of Morning Bells. A collection of her shorter fiction will be
published soon.

                                                       "Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief!"

                                                                                                -Mark 9:24

   At first I didn't recognize Devrie.

   Devrie-I didn't recognize Devrie. Astonished at myself, I studied the wasted figure
standing in the middle of the bare reception room: arms like wires, clavicle sharply
outlined, head shaved, dressed in that ugly long tent of light-weight gray. God knew
what her legs looked like under it. Then she smiled, and it was Devrie.

   "You look like shit."

   "Hello, Seena. Come on in."

   "I am in."

   "Barely. It's not catching, you know."

   "Stupidity fortunately isn't," I said and closed the door behind me. The small room
was too hot; Devrie would need the heat, of course, with almost no fat left to insulate
her bones and organs. Next to her I felt huge, although I am not. Huge, hairy, sloppy-
breasted.

   "Thank you for not wearing bright colors. They do affect me."

   "Anything for a sister," I said, mocking the old childhood formula, the old
sentiment. But Devrie was too quick to think it was only mockery; in that, at least, she
had not changed. She clutched my arm and her fingers felt like chains, or talons.

   "You found him. Seena, you found him."

   "I found him."

   "Tell me," she whispered.

   "Sit down first, before you fall over. God, Devrie, don't you eat at all?"

   "Tell me," she said. So I did.

    Devrie Caroline Konig had admitted herself to the Institute of the Biological Hope
on the Caribbean island of Dominica eleven months ago, in late November of 2017,
when her age was 23 years and 4 months. I am precise about this because it is all I can
be sure of. I need the precision. The Institute of the Biological Hope is not precise; it is
a mongrel, part research laboratory in brain sciences, part monastery, part school for
training in the discipline of the mind. That made my baby sister guinea pig, postulant,
freshman. She had always been those things, but, until now, sequentially. Apparently
so had many other people, for when eccentric Nobel Prize winner James Arthur
Bohentin had founded his Institute, he had been able to fund it, although precariously.
But in that it did not differ from most private scientific research centers.

   Or most monasteries.

   I wanted Devrie out of the Institute of the Biological Hope.

    "It's located on Dominica," I had said sensibly-what an ass I had been-to an
unwasted Devrie a year ago, "because the research procedures there fall outside
United States laws concerning the safety of research subjects. Doesn't that tell you
something, Devrie? Doesn't that at least give you pause? In New York, it would be
illegal to do to anyone what Bohentin does to his people."

   "Do you know him?" she had asked.

   "I have met him. Once."
   "What is he like?"

   "Like stone."

  Devrie shrugged, and smiled. "All the participants in the Institute are willing.
Eager."

   "That doesn't make it ethical for Bohentin to destroy them. Ethical or legal."

   "It's legal on Dominica. And in thinking you know better than the participants what
they should risk their own lives for, aren't you playing God?"

  "Better me than some untrained fanatic who offers himself up like an exalted
Viking hero, expecting Valhalla."

   "You're an intellectual snob, Seena."

   "I never denied it."

   "Are you sure you aren't really objecting not to the Institute's dangers but to its
purpose? Isn't the 'Hope' part what really bothers you?"

  "I don't think scientific method and pseudo-religious mush mix, no. I never did. I
don't think it leads to a perception of God."

   "The holotank tapes indicate it leads to a perception of something the brain hasn't
encountered before," Devrie said, and for a moment I was silent.

   I was once, almost, a biologist. I was aware of the legitimate studies that formed
the basis for Bohentin's megalomania: the brain wave changes that accompany
anorexia nervosa, sensory deprivation, biological feedback, and neurotransmit-ter
stimulants. I have read the historical accounts, some merely pathetic but some
disturbingly not, of the Christian mystics who achieved rapture through the
mortification of the flesh and the Eastern mystics who achieved anesthesia through the
control of the mind, of the faith healers who succeeded, of the carcinomas shrunk
through trained will. I knew of the research of focused clairvoyance during orgasm,
and of what happens when neurotransmitter number and speed are increased
chemically.

   And I knew all that was known about the twin trance.

   Fifteen years earlier, as a doctoral student in biology, I had spent one summer
replicating Sunderwirth's pioneering study of drug-enhanced telepathy in identical
twins. My results were positive, except that within six months all eight of my research
subjects had died. So had Sunderwirth's. Twin-trance research became the cloning
controversy of the new decade, with the same panicky cycle of public outcry, legal
restrictions, religious misunderstandings, fear, and demagogu-ery. When I received the
phone call that the last of my subjects was dead-cardiac arrest, no history of heart
disease, forty-three Goddamn years old-I locked myself in my apartment, with the
lights off and my father's papers clutched in my hand, for three days. Then I resigned
from the neurology department and became an entomologist. There is no pain in
classifying dead insects.

   "There is something there," Devrie had repeated. She was holding the letter sent to
our father, whom someone at the Institute had not heard was dead. "It says the
holotank tapes-''

   "So there's something there," I said. "So the tanks are picking up some strange
radiation. Why call it 'God'?"

   "Why not call it God?"

   "Why not call it Rover? Even if I grant you that the tape pattern looks like a
presence-which I don't-you have no way of knowing that Bohentin's phantom isn't,
say, some totally ungodlike alien being."

   "But neither do I know that it is."

   "Devrie-"

   She had smiled and put her hands on my shoulders. She had-has, has always had-a
very sweet smile. "Seena. Think. If the Institute can prove rationally that God exists-
can prove it to the intellectual mind, the doubting Thomases who need something
concrete to study… faith that doesn't need to be taken on faith…"
    She wore her mystical face, a glowing softness that made me want to shake the
silliness out of her. Instead I made some clever riposte, some sarcasm I no longer
remember, and reached out to ruffle her hair. Big-sisterly, patronizing, thinking I
could deflate her rapturous interest with the pin-prick of ridicule. God, I was an ass. It
hurts to remember how big an ass I was.

   A month and a half later Devrie committed herself and half her considerable
inheritance to the Institute of the Biological Hope.

   "Tell me," Devrie whispered. The Institute had no windows; outside I had seen
grass, palm trees, butterflies floating in the sunshine, but inside here in the bare gray
room there was nowhere to look but at her face.

   "He's a student in a Master's program at a third-rate college in New Hampshire. He
was adopted when he was two, nearly three, in March of 1997. Before that he was in a
government-run children's home. In Boston, of course. The adopting family, as far as I
can discover, never was told he was anything but one more toddler given up by
somebody for adoption."

   "Wait a minute," Devrie said. "I need… a minute."

  She had turned paler, and her hands trembled. I had recited the information as if it
were no more than an exhibit listing at my museum. Of course she was rattled. I
wanted her rattled. I wanted her out.

   Lowering herself to the floor, Devrie sat cross-legged and closed her eyes.
Concentration spread over her face, but a concentration so serene it barely deserved
that name. Her breathing slowed, her color freshened, and when she opened her eyes,
they had the rested energy of a person who has just slept eight hours in mountain air.
Her face even looked plumper, and an EEG, I guessed, would show damn near alpha
waves. In her year at the Institute she must have mastered quite an array of
biofeedback techniques to do that, so fast and with such a malnourished body.

   "Very impressive," I said sourly.

   "Seena-have you seen him?"
   "No. All this is from sealed records."

   "How did you get into the records?"

   "Medical and governmental friends."

   "Who?"

   "What do you care, as long as I found out what you wanted to know?"

   She was silent. I knew she would never ask me if I had obtained her information
legally or illegally; it would not occur to her to ask. Devrie, being Devrie, would
assume it had all been generously offered by my modest museum connections and our
dead father's immodest research connections. She would be wrong.

   "How old is he now?"

  "Twenty-four years last month. They must have used your two-month tissue
sample."

   "Do you think Daddy knew where the… baby went?"

   "Yes. Look at the timing-the child was normal and healthy, yet he wasn't adopted
until he was nearly three. The researchers kept track of him, all right; they kept all six
clones in a government-controlled home where they could monitor their development
as long as humanely possible. The same-sex clones were released for adoption after a
year, but they hung onto the cross-sex ones until they reached an age where they
would become harder to adopt. They undoubtedly wanted to study them as long as
they could. And even after the kids were released for adoption, the researchers held off
publishing until all six were placed and the records sealed. Dad's group didn't publish
until April, 1998, remember. By the time the storm broke, the babies were out of its
path, and anonymous."

   "And the last," Devrie said.

   "And the last," I agreed, although of course the researchers hadn't foreseen that. So
few in the scientific community had foreseen that. Offense against God and man,
Satan's work, natter natter. Watching my father's suddenly stooped shoulders and
stricken eyes, I had thought how ugly public revulsion could be and had nobly
resolved-how had I thought of it then? So long ago-resolved to snatch the banner of
pure science from my fallen father's hand. Another time that I had been an ass. Five
years later, when it had been my turn to feel the ugly scorching of public revulsion, I
had broken, left neurological research, and fled down the road that led to the Museum
of Natural History, where I was the curator of ants fossilized in amber and moths
pinned securely under permaplex.

   "The other four clones," Devrie said, "the ones from that university in California
that published almost simultaneously with Daddy-"

   "I don't know. I didn't even try to ask. It was hard enough in Cambridge."

   "Me," Devrie said wonderingly. "He's me."

   "Oh, for-Devrie, he's your twin. No more than that. No-actually less than that. He
shares your genetic material exactly as an identical twin would, except for the Y
chromosome, but he shares none of the congenital or environmental influences that
shaped your personality. There's no mystical replication of spirit in cloning. He's
merely a twin who got born eleven months late!"

   She looked at me with luminous amusement. I didn't like the look. On that fleshless
face, the skin stretched so taut that the delicate bones beneath were as visible as the
veins of a moth wing, her amusement looked ironic. Yet Devrie was never ironic.
Gentle, passionate, trusting, a little stupid, she was not capable of irony. It was beyond
her, just as it was beyond her to wonder why I, who had fought her entering the
Institute of the Biological Hope, had brought her this information now. Her
amusement was one-layered, and trusting.

   God's fools, the Middle Ages had called them.

   "Devrie," I said, and heard my own voice unexpectedly break, "leave here. It's
physically not safe. What are you down to, ten percent body fat? Eight? Look at
yourself, you can't hold body heat, your palms are dry, you can't move quickly without
getting dizzy. Hypotension. What's your heartbeat? Do you still menstruate? It's
insane."

  She went on smiling at me. God's fools don't need menstruation. "Come with me,
Seena. I want to show you the Institute."

   "I don't want to see it."

   "Yes. This visit you should see it."

   "Why this visit?"

  "Because you are going to help me get my clone to come here, aren't you? Or else
why did you go to all the trouble of locating him?"

   I didn't answer. She still didn't see it.

    Devrie said, " 'Anything for a sister.' But you were always more like a mother to me
than a sister." She took my hand and pulled herself off the floor. So had I pulled her up
to take her first steps, the day after our mother died in a plane crash at Orly. Now
Devrie's hand felt cold. I imprisoned it and counted the pulse.

   "Bradycardia."

   But she wasn't listening.

   The Institute was a shock. I had anticipated the laboratories: monotonous gray
walls, dim light, heavy soundproofing, minimal fixtures in the ones used for sensory
dampening; high-contrast textures and colors, strobe lights, quite good sound
equipment in those for sensory arousal. There was much that Devrie, as subject rather
than researcher, didn't have authority to show me, but I deduced much from what I did
see. The dormitories, divided by sex, were on the sensory-dampening side. The
subjects slept in small cells, ascetic and chaste, that reminded me of an abandoned
Carmelite convent I had once toured in Belgium. That was the shock: the physical
plant felt scientific, but the atmosphere did not.

    There hung in the gray corridors a wordless peace, a feeling so palpable I could feel
it clogging my lungs. No. "Peace" was the wrong word. Say "peace" and the picture is
pastoral, lazy sunshine and dreaming woods. This was not like that at all. The research
subjects-students? postulants? -lounged in the corridors outside closed labs, waiting
for the next step in their routine. Both men and women were anorec-tic, both wore
gray bodysuits or caftans, both were fined down to an otherworldly ethereality when
seen from a distance and a malnourished asexuality when seen up close. They talked
among themselves in low voices, sitting with backs against the wall or stretched full-
length on the carpeted floor, and on all their faces I saw the same luminous patience,
the same certainty of being very near to something exciting that they nonetheless
could wait for calmly, as long as necessary.

  "They look," I said to Devrie, "as if they're waiting to take an exam they already
know they'll ace."

  She smiled. "Do you think so? I always think of us as travelers waiting for a plane,
boarding passes stamped for Eternity."

   She was actually serious. But she didn't in fact wear the same expression as the
others; hers was far more intense. If they were travelers, she wanted to pilot.

   The lab door opened and the students brought themselves to their feet. Despite their
languid movements, they looked sharp: sharp protruding clavicles, bony chins, angular
unpadded elbows that could chisel stone.

   "This is my hour for biofeedback manipulation of drug effects," Devrie said.
"Please come watch."

   "I'd sooner watch you whip yourself in a twelfth-century monastery."

   Devrie's eyes widened, then again lightened with that luminous amusement. "It's
for the same end, isn't it? But they had such unsystematic means. Poor struggling God-
searchers. I wonder how many of them made it.''

   I wanted to strike her. ' 'Devrie-''

   "If not biofeedback, what would you like to see?"

   "You out of here."
   "What else?"

   There was only one thing: the holotanks. I struggled with the temptation, and lost.
The two tanks stood in the middle of a roomy lab carpeted with thick gray matting and
completely enclosed in a Faraday cage. That Devrie had a key to the lab was my first
clue that my errand for her had been known, and discussed, by someone higher in the
Institute. Research subj jects do not carry keys to the most delicate brain-perception
equipment in the world. For this equipment Bohentin had received his Nobel.

   The two tanks, independent systems, stood as high as my shoulder. The ones I had
used fifteen years ago had been smaller. Each of these was a cube, opaque on its
bottom half, which held the sensing apparatus, computerized simulators, and recording
equipment; clear on its top half, which was filled with the transparent fluid out of
whose molecules the simulations would form. A separate sim would form for each
subject, as the machine sorted and mapped all the electromagnetic radiation received
and processed by each brain. All that each brain perceived, not only the visuals; the
holograph equipment was capable of picking up all wavelengths that the brain did, and
of displaying their brain-processed analogues as three-dimensional images floating in
a clear womb. When all other possible sources of radiation were filtered out except for
the emanations from the two subjects themselves, what the sims showed was what
kinds of activity were coming from-and hence going on in-the other's brain. That was
why it worked best with identical twins in twin trance: no structural brain differences
to adjust for. In a rawer version of this holotank, a rawer version of myself had
pioneered the recording of twin trances. The UCIC, we had called it then: What you
see, I see.

   What I had seen was eight autopsy reports.

   "We're so close," Devrie said. "Mona and Marlene"- she waved a hand toward the
corridor but Mona and Marlene, whichever two they had been, had gone--"had taken
KX3, that's the drug that-"

   "I know what it is," I said, too harshly. KX3 reacts with one of the hormones
overproduced in an anorectic body. The combination is readily absorbed by body fat,
but in a body without fat, much of it is absorbed by the brain.
   Devrie continued, her hand tight on my arm. "Mona and Marlene were controlling
the neural reactions with biofeed-back, pushing the twin trance higher and higher,
working it. Dr. Bohentin was monitoring the holotanks. The sims were incredibly
detailed-everything each twin perceived in the perceptions of the other, in all
wavelengths. Mona and Marlene forced their neurotransmission level even higher and
then, in the tanks"-Devrie's face glowed, the mystic-rapture look-"a completely third
sim formed. Completely separate. A third presence."

   I stared at her.

   "It was recorded in both tanks. It was shadowy, yes, but it was there. A third
presence that can't be perceived except through another human's electromagnetic
presence, and then only with every drug and trained reaction and arousal mode and the
twin trance all pushing the brain into a supraheightened state. A third presence!"

   "Isotropic radiation. Bohentin fluffed the pre-screening program and the computer
hadn't cleared the background microradiation-" I said, but even as I spoke I knew how
stupid that was. Bohentin didn't make mistakes like that, and isotropic radiation
simulates nowhere close to the way a presence does. Devrie didn't even bother to
answer me.

   This, then, was what the rumors had been about, the rumors leaking for the last
year out of the Institute and through the scientific community, mostly still scoffed at,
not yet picked up by the popular press. This. A verifiable, repli-cable third presence
being picked up by holography. Against all reason, a long shiver went over me from
neck to that cold place at the base of the spine.

   "There's more," Devrie said feverishly. "They felt it. Mona and Marlene. Both said
afterwards that they could feel it, a huge presence filled with light, but they couldn't
quite reach it. Damn-they couldn't reach it, Seena! They weren't playing off each other
enough, weren't close enough. Weren't, despite the twin trance, melded enough."

   "Sex," I said.

   "They tried it. The subjects are all basically heterosexual. They inhibit."

   "So go find some homosexual God-yearning anorectic incestuous twins!"
   Devrie looked at me straight. "I need him. Here. He is me."

    I exploded, right there in the holotank lab. No one came running in to find out if the
shouting was dangerous to the tanks, which was my second clue that the Institute
knew very well why Devrie had brought me there. "Damn it to hell, he's a human
being, not some chemical you can just order up because you need it for an experiment!
You don't have the right to expect him to come here, you didn't even have the right to
tell anyone that he exists, but that didn't stop you, did it? There are still anti-
bioengineering groups out there in the real world, religious split-brains who-how dare
you put him in any danger? How dare you even presume he'd be interested in this
insane mush?"

   "He'll come," Devrie said. She had not changed expression.

   "How the hell do you know?"

   "He's me. And I want God. He will, too."

   I scowled at her. A fragment of one of her poems, a thing she had written when she
was fifteen, came to me: "Two humans species/Never one-/One aching for God/One
never." But she had been fifteen then. I had assumed that the sentiment, as adolescent
as the poetry, would pass.

   I said, "What does Bohentin think of this idea of importing your clone?"

   For the first time she hesitated. Bohentin, then, was dubious. "He thinks it's rather a
long shot."

   "You could phrase it that way."

    "But / know he'll want to come. Some things you just know, Seena, beyond
rationality. And besides-" She hesitated again, and then went on. "I have left half my
inheritance from Daddy, and the income on the trust from Mummy."

   "Devrie. God, Devrie-you'd buy him?"
    For the first time she looked angry. "The money would be just to get him here, to
see what is involved. Once he sees, he'll want this as much as I do, at any price! What
price can you put on God? I'm not 'buying' his life-I'm offering him the way to find
life. What good is breathing, existing, if there's no purpose to it? Don't you realize how
many centuries, in how many ways, people have looked for that light-filled presence
and never been able to be sure1} And now we're almost there, Seena, I've seen it for
myself-almost there. With verifiable, scientifically-controlled means. Not subjective
faith this time-scientific data, the same as for any other actual phenomenon. This
research stands now where research into the atom stood fifty years ago. Can you touch
a quark? But it's there! And my clone can be a part of it, can be it, how can you talk
about the money buying him under circumstances like that!"

  I said slowly, "How do you know that whatever you're so close to is God?" But that
was sophomoric, of course, and she was ready for it. She smiled warmly.

  ' 'What does it matter what we call it? Pick another label if it will make you more
comfortable."

   I took a piece of paper from my pocket. "His name is

  Keith Torellen. He lives in Indian Falls, New Hampshire. Address and mailnet
number here. Good luck, Devrie." I turned to go.

   "Seena! /can't go!"

   She couldn't, of course. That was the point. She barely had the strength in that
starved, drug-battered body to get through the day, let alone to New Hampshire. She
needed the sensory-controlled environment, the artificial heat, the chemical moni-
toring. "Then send someone from the Institute. Perhaps Bohentin will go."

   "BohentinV she said, and I knew that was impossible; Bohentin had to remain
officially ignorant of this sort of recruiting. Too many U.S. laws were involved. In
addition, Bohentin had no persuasive skills; people as persons and not neurologies did
not interest him. They were too far above chemicals and too far below God.

   Devrie looked at me with a kind of level fury. "This is really why you found him,
isn't it? So I would have to stop the drug program long enough to leave here and go get
him. You think that once I've gone back out into the world either the build-up effects
in the brain will be interrupted or else the spell will be broken and I'll have doubts
about coming back here!"

   "Will you listen to yourself? 'Out into the world.' You sound like some archaic nun
in a cloistered order!"

   "You always did ridicule anything you couldn't understand," Devrie said icily,
turned her back on me, and stared at the empty holotanks. She didn't turn when I left
the lab, closing the door behind me. She was still facing the tanks, her spiny back
rigid, the piece of paper with Keith Torellen's address clutched in fingers delicate as
glass.

   In New York the museum simmered with excitement. An unexpected endowment
had enabled us to buy the contents of a small, very old museum located in a part of
Madagascar not completely destroyed by the African Horror. Crate after crate of
moths began arriving in New York, some of them collected in the days when
naturalists-gentlemen shot jungle moths from the trees using dust shot. Some species
had been extinct since the Horror and thus were rare; some were the brief mutations
from the bad years afterward and thus were even rarer. The museum staff uncrated and
exclaimed.

   "Look at this one," said a young man, holding it out to me. Not on my own staff, he
was one of the specialists on loan to us-DeFabio or DeFazio, something like that. He
was very handsome. I looked at the moth he showed me, all pale wings outstretched
and pinned to black silk. "A perfect Thysania Africana. Perfect."

   "Yes."

   "You'll have to loan us the whole exhibit, in a few years."

   "Yes," I said again. He heard the tone in my voice and glanced up quickly. But not
quickly enough-my face was all professional interest when his gaze reached it. Still,
the professional interest had not fooled him; he had heard the perfunctory note.
Frowning, he turned back to the moths.

   By day I directed the museum efficiently enough. But in the evenings, home alone
in my apartment, I found myself wandering from room to room, touching objects,
unable to settle to work at the oversize teak desk that had been my father's, to the
reports and journals that had not. His had dealt with the living, mine with the ancient
dead-but I had known that for years. The fogginess of my evenings bothered me.

   "Faith should not mean fogginess."

   Who had said that? Father, of course, to Devrie, when she had joined the dying
Catholic Church. She had been thirteen years old. Skinny, defiant, she had stood
clutching a black rosary from God knows where, daring him from scared dark eyes to
forbid her. Of course he had not, thinking, I suppose, that Heaven, like any other
childhood fever, was best left alone to burn out its course.

   Devrie had been received into the Church in an overdecorated chapel, wearing an
overdecorated dress of white lace and carrying a candle. Three years later she had left,
dressed in a magenta body suit and holding the keys to Father's safe, which his
executor had left unlocked after the funeral. The will had, of course, made me Devrie's
guardian. In the three years Devrie had been going to Mass, I had discovered that I
was sterile, divorced my second husband, finished my work in entomology, accepted
my first position with a museum, and entered a drastically premature menopause.

   That is not a flip nor random list.

   After the funeral, I sat in the dark in my father's study, in his maroon leather chair
and at his teak desk. Both felt oversize. All the lights were off. Outside it rained; I
heard the steady beat of water on the window, and the wind. The dark room was cold.
In my palm I held one of my father's research awards, a small abstract sculpture of a
double helix, done by Harold Landau himself. It was very heavy. I couldn't think what
Landau had used, to make it so heavy. I couldn't think, with all the noise from the rain.
My father was dead, and I would never bear a child.

    Devrie came into the room, leaving the lights off but bringing with her an
incandescent rectangle from the doorway. At sixteen she was lovely, with long brown
hair in the masses of curls again newly fashionable. She sat on a low stool beside me,
all that hair falling around her, her face white in the gloom. She had been crying.

   "He's gone. He's really gone. I don't believe it yet."
   "No."

   She peered at me. Something in my face, or my voice, must have alerted her; when
she spoke again it was in that voice people use when they think your grief is
understandably greater than theirs. A smooth dark voice, like a wave.

   "You still have me, Seena. We still have each other."

   I said nothing.

   "I've always thought of you more as my mother than my sister, anyway. You took
the place of Mother. You've been a mother to at least me."

   She smiled and squeezed my hand. I looked at her face-so young, so pretty-and I
wanted to hit her. I didn't want to be her mother; I wanted to be her. All her choices
lay ahead of her, and it seemed to me that self-indulgent night as if mine were
finished. I could have struck her.

   "Seena-"

   "Leave me alone! Can't you ever leave me alone? All my life you've been dragging
behind me; why don't you die and finally leave me alone!"

   We make ourselves pay for small sins more than large ones. The more trivial the
thrust, the longer we're haunted by memory of the wound.

   I believe that.

   Indian Falls was out of another time: slow, quiet, safe. The Aviscounter at the
airport rented not personal guards but cars, and the only shiny store on Main Street
sold wilderness equipment. I suspected that the small state college, like the town,
traded mostly on trees and trails. That Keith Torellen was trying to take an academic
degree here told me more about his adopting family than if I had hired a professional
information service.

   The house where he lived was shabby, paint peeling and steps none too sturdy. I
climbed them slowly, thinking once again what I wanted to find out.

   Devrie would answer none of my messages on the mailnet. Nor would she accept
my phone calls. She was shutting me out, in retaliation for my refusing to fetch
Torellen for her. But Devrie would discover that she could not shut me out as easily as
that; we were sisters. I wanted to know if she had contacted Torellen herself, or had
sent someone from the Institute to do so.

   If neither, then my visit here would be brief and anonymous; I would leave Keith
Torellen to his protected ignorance and shabby town. But if he had seen Devrie, I
wanted to discover if and what he had agreed to do for her. It might even be possible
that he could be of use in convincing Devrie of the stupidity of what she was doing. If
he could be used for that, I would use him.

   Something else: I was curious. This boy was my brother- nephew? no, brother-as
well as the result of my father's rational mind. Curiosity prickled over me. I rang the
bell.

  It was answered by the landlady, who said that Keith was not home, would not be
home until late, was "in rehearsal."

   "Rehearsal?"

   "Over to the college. He's a student and they're putting on a play."

   I said nothing, thinking.

   "I don't remember the name of the play," the landlady said. She was a large woman
in a faded garment, dress or robe. "But Keith says it's going to be real good. It starts
this weekend." She laughed. "But you probably already know all that! George, my
husband George, he says I'm forever telling people things they already know!"

   "How would I know?"

   She winked at me. "Don't you think I got eyes? Sister, or cousin? No, let me guess-
older sister. Too much alike for cousins."
   "Thank you," I said. "You've been very helpful."

   "Not sister!" She clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes shiny with amusement.
"You're checking up on him, ain't you? You're his mother! I should of seen it right
off!"

   I turned to negotiate the porch steps.

   "They rehearse in the new building, Mrs. Torellen," she called after me. "Just ask
anybody you see to point you in the right direction."

   "Thank you," I said carefully.

   Rehearsal was nearly over. Evidently it was a dress rehearsal; the actors were in
period costume and the director did not interrupt. I did not recognize the period or the
play. Devrie had been interested in theater: I was not. Quietly I took a seat in the
darkened back row and waited for the pretending to end.

   Despite wig and greasepaint, I had no trouble picking out Keith Torellen. He
moved like Devrie: quick, light movements, slightly pigeon-toed. He had her height
and, given the differences of a male body, her slenderness. Sitting a theater's length
away, I might have been seeing a male Devrie.

   But seen up close, his face was mine.

   Despite the landlady, it was a shock. He came toward me across the theater lobby,
from where I had sent for him, and I saw the moment he too struck the resemblance.
He stopped dead, and we stared at each other. Take Devrie's genes, spread them over a
face with the greater bone surface, larger features, and coarser skin texture of a man-
and the result was my face. Keith had scrubbed off his make-up and removed his wig,
exposing brown curly hair the same shade Devrie's had been. But his face was mine.

   A strange emotion, unnamed and hot, seared through me.

   "Who are you! Who the hell are you?"

   So no one had come from the Institute after all. Not Devrie, not any one.
   "You're one of them, aren't you?" he said; it was almost a whisper. "One of my real
family?"

   Still gripped by the unexpected force of emotion, still dumb, I said nothing. Keith
took one step toward me. Suspicion played over his face-Devrie would not have been
suspicious-and vanished, replaced by a slow painful flush of color.

   "You are. You are one. Are you… are you my mother?"

    I put out a hand against a stone post. The lobby was all stone and glass. Why were
all theater lobbies stone and glass? Architects had so little damn imagination, so little
sense of the bizarre.

   "No! I am not your mother!"

  He touched my arm. "Hey, are you okay? You don't look good. Do you need to sit
down?"

    His concern was unexpected, and touching. I thought that he shared Devrie's
genetic personality, and that Devrie had always been hypersensitive to the body. But
this was not Devrie. His hand on my arm was stronger, firmer, warmer than Devrie's. I
felt giddy, disoriented. This was not Devrie.

    "A mistake," I said unsteadily. "This was a mistake. I should not have come. I'm
sorry. My name is Dr. Seena Konig and I am a… relative of yours, but I think this now
is a mistake. I have your address and I promise that I'll write you about your family,
but now I think I should go." Write some benign lie, leave him in ignorance. This was
a mistake.

   But he looked stricken, and his hand tightened on my arm. "You can't! I've been
searching for my biological family for two years! You can't just go!"

   We were beginning to attract attention in the theater lobby. Hurrying students eyed
us sideways. I thought irrelevantly how different they looked from the "students" at
the Institute, and with that thought regained my composure. This was a student, a boy-
"you can't!" a boyish protest, and boyish panic in his voice-and not the man-Devrie-
me he had seemed a foolish moment ago. He was nearly twenty years my junior. I
smiled at him and removed his hand from my arm.

   "Is there somewhere we can have coffee?"

   "Yes. Dr…"

   "Seena," I said. "Call me Seena."

   Over coffee, I made him talk first. He watched me anxiously over the rim of his
cup, as if I might vanish, and I listened to the words behind the words. His adopting
family was the kind that hoped to visit the Grand Canyon but not Europe, go to
movies but not opera, aspire to college but not to graduate work, buy wilderness
equipment but not wilderness. Ordinary people. Not religious, not rich, not unusual.
Keith was the only child. He loved them.

   "But at the same time I never really felt I belonged," he said, and looked away from
me. It was the most personal thing he had knowingly revealed, and I saw that he
regretted it. Devrie would not have. More private, then, and less trusting. And I sensed
in him a grittiness, a tougher awareness of the world's hardness, than Devrie had ever
had-or needed to have. I made my decision. Having disturbed him thus far, I owed him
truth-but not the whole truth.

   "Now you tell me," Keith said, pushing away his cup. "Who were my parents? Our
parents? Are you my sister?"

   "Yes."

   "Our parents?"

   "Both are dead. Our father was Dr. Richard Konig. He was a scientist. He-" But
Keith had recognized the name. His readings in biology or history must have been
more extensive than I would have expected. His eyes widened, and I suddenly wished
I had been more oblique.

   "Richard Konig. He's one of those scientists that were involved in that
bioengineering scandal-"
   "How did you learn about that? It's all over and done with. Years ago."

   "Journalism class. We studied how the press handled it, especially the
sensationalism surrounding the cloning thing twenty years-"

   I saw the moment it hit him. He groped for his coffee cup, clutched the handle,
didn't raise it. It was empty anyway. And then what I said next shocked me as much as
anything I have ever done.

  "It was Devrie," I said, and heard my own vicious pleasure, "Devrie was the one
who wanted me to tell you!"

   But of course he didn't know who Devrie was. He went on staring at me, panic in
his young eyes, and I sat frozen. That tone I heard in my own voice when I said
"Devrie," that vicious pleasure that it was she and not I who was hurting him…

   "Cloning," Keith said. "Konig was in trouble for claiming to have done illegal
cloning. Of humans." His voice had held so much dread that I fought off my own
dread and tried to hold myself steady to his need.

   "It's illegal now, but not then. And the public badly misunderstood. All that
sensationalism-you were right to use that word, Keith-covered up the fact that there is
nothing abnormal about producing a fetus from another diploid cell. In the womb,
identical twins-"

   "Am I a clone?"

   "Keith-"

   "Am I a clone?"

   Carefully I studied him. This was not what I had intended, but although the fear
was still in his eyes, the panic had gone. And curiosity-Devrie's curiosity, and her
eagerness-they were there as well. This boy would not strike me, nor stalk out of the
restaurant, nor go into psychic shock.
   "Yes. You are."

   He sat quietly, his gaze turned inward. A long moment passed in silence.

   "Your cell?"

   "No. My-our sister's. Our sister Devrie."

   Another long silence. He did not panic. Then he said softly, "Tell me."

   Devrie's phrase.

   "There isn't much to tell, Keith. If you've seen the media accounts, you know the
story, and also what was made of it. The issue then becomes how you feel about what
you saw. Do you believe that cloning is meddling with things man should best leave
alone?''

   "No. I don't."

  I let out my breath, although I hadn't known I'd been holding it. "It's actually no
more than delayed twinning, followed by surrogate implantation. A zygote-"

   "I know all that," he said with some harshness, and held up his hand to silence me. I
didn't think he knew that he did it. The harshness did not sound like Devrie. To my
ears, it sounded like myself. He sat thinking, remote and troubled, and I did not try to
touch him.

   Finally he said, "Do my parents know?"

   He meant his adoptive parents. "No."

   "Why are you telling me now? Why did you come?"

   "Devrie asked me to."

   "She needs something, right? A kidney? Something like that?"
   I had not foreseen that question. He did not move in a class where spare organs
were easily purchasable. "No. Not a kidney, not any kind of biological donation." A
voice in my mind jeered at that, but I was not going to give him any clues that would
lead to Devrie. "She just wanted me to find you."

   "Why didn't she find me herself? She's my age, right?"

   "Yes. She's ill just now and couldn't come."

   "Is she dying?"

   "No!"

   Again he sat quietly, finally saying, "No one could tell me anything. For two years
I've been searching for my mother, and not one of the adoptee-search agencies could
find a single trace. Not one. Now I see why. Who covered the trail so well?"

   "My father."

   "I want to meet Devrie."

   I said evenly, "That might not be possible."

   "Why not?"

   "She's in a foreign hospital. Out of the country. I'm sorry."

   "When does she come home?"

   "No one is sure."

   "What disease does she have?"

   She's sick for God, I thought, but aloud I said, not thinking it through, "A brain
disease."

   Instantly I saw my own cruelty. Keith paled, and I cried, "No, no, nothing you
could have as well! Truly, Keith, it's not-she took a bad fall. From her hunter."

   "Her hunter," he said. For the first time, his gaze flickered over my clothing and
jewelry. But would he even recognize how expensive they were? I doubted it. He wore
a synthetic, deep-pile jacket with a tear at one shoulder and a cheap wool hat, dark
blue, shapeless with age. From long experience I recognized his gaze: uneasy, furtive,
the expression of a man glimpsing the financial gulf between what he had assumed
were equals. But it wouldn't matter. Adopted children have no legal claim on the
estates of their biological parents. I had checked.

   Keith said uneasily, "Do you have a picture of Devrie?"

   "No," I lied.

   "Why did she want you to find me? You still haven't said."

   I shrugged. "The same reason, I suppose, that you looked for your biological
family. The pull of blood."

   "Then she wants me to write to her."

   "Write to me instead."

   He frowned. "Why? Why not to Devrie?"

   What to say to that? I hadn't bargained on so much inten-sity from him. "Write in
care of me, and I'll forward it to Devrie."

   "Why not to her directly?"

   "Her doctors might not think it advisable," I said coldly, and he backed off-either
from the mention of doctors or from the coldness.

   "Then give me your address, Seena. Please."

  I did. I could see no harm in his writing me. It might even be pleasant. Coming
home from the museum, another wintry day among the exhibits, to find on the mailnet
a letter I could answer when and how I chose, without being taken by surprise. I liked
the idea.

   But no more difficult questions now. I stood. "I have to leave, Keith."

   He looked alarmed. "So soon?"

   "Yes."

   "But why?"

   "I have to return to work."

   He stood, too. He was taller than Devrie. "Seena," he said, all earnestness, "just a
few more questions. How did you find me?"

   "Medical connections."

   "Yours?"

   "Our father's. I'm not a scientist." Evidently his journalism class had not studied
twin-trance sensationalism.

   "What do you do?"

   '' Museum curator. Arthropods.''

   "What does Devrie do?"

   "She's too ill to work. I must go, Keith."

   "One more. Do I look like Devrie as well as you?"

   "It would be wise, Keith, if you were careful whom you spoke with about all of
this. I hadn't intended to say so much."

   "I'm not going to tell my parents. Not about being-not about all of it."
   "I think that's best, yes."

   "Do I look like Devrie as well as you?"

  A little of my first, strange emotion returned with his intensity. "A little, yes. But
more like me. Sex variance is a tricky thing."

  Unexpectedly, he held my coat for me. As I slipped into it, he said from behind,
"Thank you, Seena," and let his hands rest on my shoulders.

   I did not turn around. I felt my face flame, and self-disgust flooded through me,
followed by a desire to laugh. It was all so transparent. This man was an attractive
stranger, was Devrie, was youth, was myself, was the work not of my father's loins but
of his mind. Of course I was aroused by him. Freud outlasts cloning: a note for a
research study, I told myself grimly, and inwardly I did laugh.

   But that didn't help either.

   In New York, winter came early. Cold winds whipped whitecaps on harbor and
river, and the trees in the Park stood bare even before October had ended. The
crumbling outer boroughs of the shrinking city crumbled a little more and talked of the
days when New York had been important. Manhattan battened down for snow, hired
the seasonal increases in personal guards, and talked of Albuquerque. Each night
museum security hunted up and evicted the drifters trying to sleep behind exhibits,
drifters as chilled and pale as the moths under permaplex, and, it seemed to me, as de-
tached from the blood of their own age. All of New York seemed detached to me that
October, and cold. Often I stood in front of the cases of Noctuidae, staring at them for
so long that my staff began to glance at each other covertly. I would catch their
glances when I jerked free of my trance. No one asked me about it.

   Still no message came from Devrie. When I contacted the Institute on the mailnet,
she did not call back.

   No letter came from Keith Torellen.

   Then one night, after I had worked late and was hurrying through the chilly gloom
toward my building, he was there, bulking from the shadows so quickly that the guard
I had taken for the walk from the museum sprang forward in attack position.

   "No! It's all right! I know him!"

   The guard retreated, without expression. Keith stared after him, and then at me, his
face unreadable.

   "Keith, what are you doing here? Come inside!"

   He followed me into the lobby without a word. Nor did he say anything during the
metal scanning and ID procedure. I took him up to my apartment, studying him in the
elevator.

   He wore the same jacket and cheap wool hat as in Indian Falls, his hair wanted
cutting, and the tip of his nose was red from waiting in the cold. How long had he
waited there? He badly needed a shave.

   In the apartment he scanned the rugs, the paintings, my grandmother's ridiculously
ornate, ugly silver, and turned his back on them to face me.

   "Seena, I want to know where Devrie is."

   "Why? Keith, what has happened?"

   "Nothing has happened," he said, removing his jacket but not laying it anywhere.
"Only that I've left school and spent two days hitching here. It's no good, Seena. To
say that cloning is just like twinning: it's no good. I want to see Devrie."

   His voice was hard. Bulking in my living room, unshaven, that hat pulled down
over his ears, he looked older and less malleable than the last time I had seen him.
Alarm-not physical fear, I was not afraid of him, but a subtler and deeper fear-sounded
through me.

   "Why do you want to see Devrie?"

   "Because she cheated me."
   "Of what, for God's sake?"

   "Can I have a drink? Or a smoke?"

   I poured him a Scotch. If he drank, he might talk. I had to know what he wanted,
why such a desperate air clung to him, how to keep him from Devrie. I had not seen
her like this. She was strong-willed, but always with a blitheness, a trust that
eventually her will would prevail. Desperate forcefulness of the sort in Keith's manner
was not her style. But of course Devrie had always had silent money to back her will;
perhaps money could buy trust as well as style.

   Keith drank off his Scotch and held out his glass for another. "It was freezing out
there. They wouldn't let me in the lobby to wait for you."

   "Of course not."

   "You didn't tell me your family was rich."

  I was a little taken aback at his bluntness, but at the same time it pleased me; I don't
know why.

   "You didn't ask."

   "That's shit, Seena."

   "Keith. Why are you here?"

   "I told you. I want to see Devrie."

   "What is it you've decided she cheated you of? Money?"

    He looked so honestly surprised that again I was startled, this time by his
resemblance to Devrie. She too would not have thought of financial considerations
first, if there were emotional ones possible. One moment Keith was Devrie, one
moment he was not. Now he scowled with sudden anger.
  "Is that what you think-that fortune hunting brought me hitching from New
Hampshire? God, Seena, I didn't even know how much you had until this very-I still
don't know!"

   I said levelly, "Then what is it you're feeling so cheated of?"

   Now he was rattled. Again that quick, half-furtive scan of my apartment, pausing a
millisecond too long at the Caravaggio, subtly lit by its frame. When his gaze returned
to mine it was troubled, a little defensive. Ready to justify. Of course I had put him on
the defensive deliberately, but the calculation of my trick did not prepare me for the
staggering naivete of his explanation. Once more it was Devrie complete, reducing the
impersonal greatness of science to a personal and emotional loss.

   "Ever since I knew that I was adopted, at five or six years old, I wondered about my
biological family. Nothing strange in that-I think all adoptees do. I used to make up
stories, kid stuff, about how they were really royalty, or lunar colonists, or survivors of
the African Horror. Exotic things. I thought especially about my mother, imagining
this whole scene of her holding me once before she released me for adoption, crying
over me, loving me so much she could barely let me go but had to for some reason.
Sentimental shit." He laughed, trying to make light of what was not, and drank off his
Scotch to avoid my gaze.

   "But Devrie-the fact of her-destroyed all that. I never had a mother who hated to
give me up. I never had a mother at all. What I had was a cell cut from Devrie's
fingertip or someplace, something discardable, and she doesn't even know what I look
like. But she's damn well going to."

   "Why?" I said evenly. "What could you expect to gain from her knowing what you
look like?"

   But he didn't answer me directly. "That first moment I saw you, Seena, in the
theater at school, I thought you were my mother."

   "I know you did."

   "And you hated the idea. Why?"
  I thought of the child I would never bear, the marriage, like so many other things of
sweet promise, gone sour. But self-pity is a fool's game. "None of your business."

   "Isn't it? Didn't you hate the idea because of the way I was made? Coldly. An
experiment. Weren't you a little bit insulted at being called the mother of a discardable
cell from Devrie's fingertip?"

    "What the hell have you been reading? An experiment- what is any child but an
experiment? A random egg, a random sperm. Don't talk like one of those anti-science
religious split-brains!"

   He studied me levelly. Then he said, "Is Devrie religious? Is that why you're so
afraid of her?"

   I got to my feet, and pointed at the sideboard. "Help yourself to another drink if you
wish. I want to wash my hands. I've been handling speciments all afternoon." Stupid,
clumsy lie-nobody would believe such a lie.

   In the bathroom I leaned against the closed door, shut my eyes, and willed myself
to calm. Why should I be so disturbed by the angry lashing-out of a confused boy? I
was handy to lash out against: my father, whom Keith was really angry at, was not. It
was all so predictable, so earnestly adolescent, that even over the hurting in my chest I
smiled. But the smile, which should have reduced Keith's ranting to the tantrum of a
child-there, there, when you grow up you'll find out that no one really knows who he
is-did not diminish Keith. His losses were real-mother, father, natural place in the
natural sequence of life and birth. And suddenly, with a clutch at the pit of my
stomach, I knew why I had told him all that I had about his origins. It was not from
any ethic of fidelity to "the truth." I had told him he was a clone because I, too, had
had real losses-research, marriage, motherhood- and Devrie could never have shared
them with me. Luminous, mystical Devrie, too occupied with God to be much hurt by
man. Leave me alone! Can't you ever leave me alone! All my life you've been
dragging behind me-why don't you die and finally leave me alone! And Devrie had
smiled tolerantly, patted my head, and left me alone, closing the door softly so as not
to disturb my grief. My words had not hurt her. I could not hurt her.

    But I could hurt Keith-the other Devrie-and I had. That was why he disturbed me
all out of proportion. That was the bond. My face, my pain, my fault.
   Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. But what
nonsense. I was not a believer, and the comforts of superstitious absolution could not
touch me. What shit. Like all nonbelievers, I stood alone.

    It came to me then that there was something absurd in thinking all this while
leaning against a bathroom door. Grimly absurd, but absurd. The toilet as
confessional. I ran the cold water, splashed some on my face, and left. How long had I
left Keith alone in the living room?

    When I returned, he was standing by the mailnet. He had punched in the command
to replay my outgoing postal messages, and displayed on the monitor was Devrie's
address at the Institute of the Biological Hope.

   "What is it?" Keith said. "A hospital?"

   I didn't answer him.

   "I can find out, Seena. Knowing this much, I can find out. Tell me."

   Tell me. "Not a hospital. It's a research laboratory. Devrie is a voluntary subject."

   "Research on what? I will find out, Seena."

   "Brain perception."

   "Perception of what?"

   "Perception of God," I said, torn among weariness, anger, and a sudden gritty
exasperation, irritating as sand. Why not just leave him to Devrie's persuasions, and
her to mystic starvation? But I knew I would not. I still, despite all of it, wanted her
out of there.

   Keith frowned. "What do you mean, 'perception of God'?"

   I told him. I made it sound as ridiculous as possible, and as dangerous. I described
the anorexia, the massive use of largely untested drugs that would have made the
Institute illegal in the United States, the skepticism of most of the scientific com-
munity, the psychoses and death that had followed twin-trance research fifteen years
earlier. Keith did not remember that-he had been eight years old-and I did not tell him
that I had been one of the researchers. I did not tell him about the tapes of the shadowy
third presence in Bohentin's holotanks. In every way I could, with every verbal
subtlety at my use, I

   made the Institute sound crackpot, and dangerous, and ugly. As I spoke, I watched
Keith's face, and sometimes it was mine, and sometimes the expression altered it into
Devrie's. I saw bewilderment at her having chosen to enter the Institute, but not what I
had hoped to see. Not scorn, not disgust.

   When I had finished, he said, "But why did she think that / might want to enter such
a place as a twin subject?"

    I had saved this for last. "Money. She'd buy you."

    His hand, his third Scotch, went rigid. "Buy me."

    "It's the most accurate way to put it."

   "What the hell made her think-" He mastered himself, not without effort. Not all the
discussion of bodily risk had affected him as much as this mention of Devrie's money.
He had a poor man's touchy pride. "She thinks of me as something to be bought."

    I was carefully quiet.

    "Damn her," he said. "Damn her." Then, roughly, "And I was actually considering-
"

   I caught my breath. "Considering the Institute? After what I've just told you? How
in hell could you? And you said, I remember, that your background was not religious!"

   "It's not. But I… I've wondered." And in the sudden turn of his head away from me
so that I wouldn't see the sudden rapt hopelessness in his eyes, in the defiant set of his
shoulders, I read more than in his banal words, and more than he could know. Devrie's
look, Devrie's wishfulness, feeding on air. The weariness and anger, checked before,
flooded me again and I lashed out at him.

   "Then go ahead and fly to Dominica to enter the Institute yourself!"

   He said nothing. But from something-his expression as he stared into his glass, the
shifting of his body-I suddenly knew that he could not afford the trip.

   I said, "So you fancy yourself as a believer?"

   "No. A believer manque." From the way he said it, I knew that he had said it
before, perhaps often, and that the phrase stirred some hidden place in his imagination.

   "What is wrong with you," I said, "with people like you, that the human world is
not enough?"

   "What is wrong with people like you, that it is?" he said, and this time he laughed
and raised his eyebrows in a little mockery that shut me out from this place beyond
reason, this glittering escape. I knew then that somehow or other, sometime or other,
despite all I had said, Keith would go to Dominica.

   I poured him another Scotch. As deftly as I could, I led the conversation into other,
lighter directions. I asked about his childhood. At first stiffly, then more easily as time
and Scotch loosened him, he talked about growing up in the Berkshire Hills. He
became more light-hearted, and under my interest turned both shrewd and funny, with
a keen sense of humor. His thick brown hair fell over his forehead. I laughed with him,
and broke out a bottle of good port. He talked about amateur plays he had acted in; his
enthusiasm increased as his coherence decreased. Enthusiasm, humor, thick brown
hair. I smoothed the hair back from his forehead. Far into the night I pulled the drapes
back from the window and we stood together and looked at the lights of the dying city
ten stories below. Fog rolled in from the sea. Keith insisted we open the doors and
stand on the balcony; he had never smelled fog tinged with the ocean. We smelled the
night, and drank some more, and talked, and laughed.

   And then I led him again to the sofa.

   "Seena?" Keith said. He covered my hand, laid upon his thigh, with his own, and
turned his head to look at me questioningly. I leaned forward and touched my lips to
his, barely in contact, for a long moment. He drew back, and his hand tried to lift
mine. I tightened my fingers.

   "Seena, no…"

    "Why not?" I put my mouth back on his, very lightly. He had to draw back to
answer, and I could feel that he did not want to draw back. Under my lips he frowned
slightly; still, despite his drunkenness-so much more than mine-he groped for the
word.

   "Incest…"

   "No. We two have never shared a womb."

   He frowned again, under my mouth. I drew back to smile at him, and shifted my
hand. "It doesn't matter anymore, Keith. Not in New York. But even if it did-I am not
your sister, not really. You said so yourself-remember? Not a family. Just… here."

   "Not family," he repeated, and I saw in his eyes the second before he closed them
the flash of pain, the greed of a young man's desire, and even the crafty evasions of the
good port. Then his arms closed around me.

   He was very strong, and more than a little violent. I guessed from what confusions
the violence flowed but still I enjoyed it, that overwhelming rush from that beautiful
male-Devrie body. I wanted him to be violent with me, as long as I knew there was no
real danger. No real danger, no real brother, no real child. Keith was not my child but
Devrie was my child-sister, and I had to stop her from destroying herself, no matter
how… didn't I? "The pull of blood." But this was necessary, was justified… was a
necessary gamble. For Devrie.

   So I told myself. Then I stopped telling myself anything at all, and surrendered to
the warm tides of pleasure.

   But at dawn I woke and thought-with Keith sleeping heavily across me and the sky
cold at the window-what the hell am I doing?

   When I came out of the shower, Keith was sitting rigidly against the pillows.
Sitting next to him on the very edge of the bed, I pulled a sheet around my nakedness
and reached for his hand. He snatched it away.

   "Keith. It's all right. Truly it is."

   "You're my sister."

   "But nothing will come of it. No child, no repetitions. It's not all that uncommon,
dear heart."

   "It is where I come from."

   "Yes. I know. But not here."

   He didn't answer, his face troubled.

   "Do you want breakfast?"

   "No. No thank you."

   I could feel his need to get away from me; it was almost palpable. Snatching my
bodysuit off the floor, I went into the kitchen, which was chilly. The servant would not
arrive for another hour. I turned up the heat, pulled on my bodysuit- standing on the
cold floor first on one foot and then on the other, like some extinct species of water
fowl-and made coffee. Through the handle of one cup I stuck two folded large bills.
He came into the kitchen, dressed even to the torn jacket.

   "Coffee."

   "Thanks."

   His fingers closed on the handle of the cup, and his eyes widened. Pure, naked
shock, uncushioned by any defenses whatsoever: the whole soul, betrayed, pinned in
the eyes.

   "Oh God, no, Keith-how can you even think so? It's for the trip back to Indian
Falls! A gift!"
   An endless pause, while we stared at each other. Then he said, very low, "I'm sorry.
I should have… seen what it's for." But his cup trembled in his hand, and a few drops
sloshed onto the floor. It was those few drops that undid me, flooding me with shame.
Keith had a right to his shock, and to the anguish in his/my/Devrie's face. She wanted
him for her mystic purposes, I for their prevention. Fanatic and saboteur, we were both
better defended against each other than Keith, without money nor religion nor years,
was against either of us. If I could have seen any other way than the gamble I had
taken… but I could not. Nonetheless, I was ashamed.

   "Keith. I'm sorry."

   "Why did we? Why did we?"

  I could have said: we didn't; I did. But that might have made it worse for him. He
was male, and so young.

    Impulsively I blurted, "Don't go to Dominica!" But of course he was beyond
listening to me now. His face closed. He set down the coffee cup and looked at me
from eyes much harder than they had been a minute ago. Was he thinking that because
of our night together I expected to influence him directly? / was not that young. He
could not foresee that I was trying to guess much farther ahead than that, for which I
could not blame him. I could not blame him for anything. But I did regret how
clumsily I had handled the money. That had been stupid.

   Nonetheless, when he left a few moments later, the handle of the coffee cup was
bare. He had taken the money.

   The Madagascar exhibits were complete. They opened to much press interest, and
there were both favorable reviews and celebrations. I could not bring myself to feel
that it mattered. Ten times a day I went through the deadening exercise of willing an
interest that had deserted me, and when I looked at the moths, ashy white wings
outstretched forever, I could feel my body recoil in a way I could not name.

   The image of the moths went home with me. One night in November I actually
thought I heard wings beating against the window where I had stood with Keith. I
yanked open the drapes and then the doors, but of course there was nothing there. For
a long time I stared at the nothingness, smelling the fog, before typing yet another
message, urgent-priority personal, to Devrie. The mailnet did not bring any answer.

   I contacted the mailnet computer at the college at Indian Falls. My fingers trembled
as they typed a request to leave an urgent-priority personal message for a student,
Keith Torellen. The mailnet typed back:

  TORELLEN, KEITH ROBERT. 64830016. ON MEDICAL LEAVE OF
ABSENCE. TIME OF LEAVE: INDEFINITE. NO FORWARDING MAILNET
NUMBER. END.

   The sound came again at the window. Whirling, I scanned the dark glass, but there
was nothing there, no moths, no wings, just the lights of the decaying city flung
randomly across the blackness and the sound, faint and very far away, of a siren
wailing out somebody else's disaster.

   I shivered. Putting on a sweater and turning up the heat made me no warmer. Then
the mail slot chimed softly and I turned in time to see the letter fall from the pneumatic
tube from the lobby, the apartment house sticker clearly visible, assuring me that it
had been processed and found free of both poison and explosives. Also visible was the
envelope's logo: INSTITUTE OF THE BIOLOGICAL HOPE, all the O's radiant
golden suns. But Devrie never wrote paper mail. She preferred the mailnet.

   The note was from Keith, not Devrie. A short note, scrawled on a torn scrap of
paper in nearly indecipherable handwriting. I had seen Keith's handwriting in Indian
Falls, across his student notebooks; this was a wildly out-of-control version of it,
almost psychotic in the variations of spacing and letter formation that signal identity. I
guessed that he had written the note under the influence of a drug, or several drugs, his
mind racing much faster than he could write. There was neither punctuation nor
paragraphing.

  Dear Seena Im going to do it I have to know my parents are angry but I have to
know I have to all the confusion is gone

   Seena Keith

   There was a word crossed out between "gone" and "Seena," scratched out with
erratic lines of ink. I held the paper up to the light, tilting it this way and that. The
crossed-out word was "mother."

   all the confusion is gone mother

   Mother.

   Slowly I let out the breath I had not known I was holding. The first emotion was
pity, for Keith, even though I had intended this. We had done a job on him, Devrie and
I. Mother, sister, self. And when he and Devrie artificially drove upward the number
and speed of the neurotransmitters in the brain, generated the twin trance, and then
Keith's pre-cloning Freudian-still mind reached for Devrie to add sexual energy to all
the other brain energies fueling Bohentin's holotanks-

   Mother. Sister. Self.

    All was fair in love and war. A voice inside my head jeered: And which is this? But
I was ready for the voice. This was both. I didn't think it would be long before Devrie
left the Institute to storm to New York.

    It was nearly another month, in which the snow began to fall and the city to deck
itself in the tired gilt fallacies of Christmas. I felt fine. Humming, I catalogued the
Madagascar moths, remounting the best specimens in exhibit cases and sealing them
under permaplex, where their fragile wings and delicate antennae could lie safe. The
mutant strains had the thinnest wings, unnaturally tenuous and up to twenty-five cen-
timeters each, all of pale ivory, as if a ghostly delicacy were the natural evolutionary
response to the glowing landscape of nuclear genocide. I catalogued each carefully.

   "Why?" Devrie said. "Why?"

   "You look like hell."

   "Why?"

  "I think you already know," I said. She sagged on my white velvet sofa, alone, the
PGs that I suspected acted as much as nurses as guards, dismissed from the apartment.
Tears of anger and exhaustion collected in her sunken eye sockets but did not fall.
Only with effort was she keeping herself in a sitting position, and the effort was
costing her energy she did not have. Her skin, except for two red spots of fury high on
each cheekbone, was the color of old eggs. Looking at her, I had to keep my hands
twisted in my lap to keep myself from weeping.

   "Are you telling me you planned it, Seena? Are you telling me you located Keith
and slept with him because you knew that would make him impotent with me?"

   "Of course not. I know sexuality isn't that simple. So do you."

   ' 'But you gambled on it. You gambled that it would be one way to ruin the
experiment."

   "I gambled that it would… complicate Keith's responses."

   "Complicate them past the point where he knew who the hell he was with!"

   "He'd be able to know if you weren't making him glow out of his mind with
neurotransmitter kickers! He's not stupid. But he's not ready for whatever mystic
hoops you've tried to make him jump through-if anybody ever can be said to be ready
for that!-and no, I'm not surprised that he can't handle libidinal energies on top of all
the other artificial energies you're racing through his brain. Something was bound to
snap."

   "You caused it, Seena. As cold-bloodedly as that."

   A sudden shiver of memory brought the feel of Keith's hands on my breasts. No,
not as cold-bloodedly as that. No. But I could not say so to Devrie.

   "I trusted you,'' she said.'' 'Anything for a sister'-God!"

   "You were right to trust me. To trust me to get you out of that place before you're
dead."

  "Listen to yourself! Smug, all-knowing, self-righteous… do you know how close
we were at the Institute? Do you have any idea what you've destroyed?"
  I laughed coldly. I couldn't help it. "If contact with God can be destroyed because
one confused kid can't get it up, what does that say about God?''

   Devrie stared at me. A long moment passed, and in the moment the two red spots
on her cheeks faded and her eyes narrowed. "Why, Seena?"

   "I told you. I wanted you safe, out of there. And you are."

  "No. No. There's something else, something more going on here. Going on with
you."

   "Don't make it more complicated than it is, Devrie. You're my sister, and my only
family. Is it so odd that I would try to protect you?"

   "Keith is your brother."

   "Well, then, protect both of you. Whatever derails that experiment protects Keith,
too."

   She said softly, "Did you want him so much?"

   We stared at each other across the living room, sisters, I standing by the mailnet
and she supported by the sofa, needing its support, weak and implacable as any
legendary martyr to the faith. Her weakness hurt me in some nameless place; as a
child Devrie's body had been so strong. The hurt twisted in me, so that I answered her
with truth. "Not so much. Not at first, not until we… no, that's not true. I wanted him.
But that was not the reason, Devrie-it was not a rationalization for lust, nor any lapse
in self-control."

  She went on staring at me, until I turned to the sideboard and poured myself a
Scotch. My hand trembled.

  Behind me Devrie said, "Not lust. And not protection either. Something else,
Seena. You're afraid."

   I turned, smiling tightly. "Of you?"
   "No. No, I don't think so."

   "What then?"

   "I don't know. Do you?"

   "This is your theory, not mine."

   She closed her eyes. The tears, shining all this time over her anger, finally fell.
Head flung back against the pale sofa, arms limp at her side, she looked the picture of
desolation, and so weak that I was frightened. I brought her a glass of milk from the
kitchen and held it to her mouth, and I was a little surprised when she drank it off
without protest.

   "Devrie. You can't go on like this. In this physical state."

   "No," she agreed, in a voice so firm and prompt that I was startled further. It was
the voice of decision, not surrender. She straightened herself on the sofa. "Even
Bohentin says I can't go on like this. I weigh less than he wants, and I'm right at the
edge of not having the physical resources to control the twin trance. I'm having
racking withdrawal symptoms even being on this trip, and at this very minute there is
a doctor sitting at Father's desk in your study, in case I need him. Also, I've had my
lawyers make over most of my remaining inheritance to Keith. I don't think you knew
that. What's left has all been transferred to a bank on Dominica, and if I die it goes to
the Institute. You won't be able to touch it, nor touch Keith's portion either, not even if
I die. And I

   will die, Seena, soon, if I don't start eating and stop taking the program's drugs. I'll
just burn out body and brain both. You've guessed that I'm close to that, but you
haven't guessed how close. Now I'm telling you. I can't handle the stresses of the twin
trance much longer.''

   I just went on holding her glass, arm extended, unable to move.

   "You gambled that you could destroy one component in the chain of my
experiment at the Institute by confusing my twin sexually. Well, you won. Now I'm
making a gamble. I'm gambling my life that you can undo what you did with Keith,
and without his knowing that I made you. You said he's not stupid and his impotency
comes from being unable to handle the drug program; perhaps you're partly right. But
he is me-me, Seena-and I know you've thought I was stupid all my life, because I
wanted things you don't understand. Now Keith wants them, too-it was inevitable that
he would- and you're going to undo whatever is standing in his way. I had to fight
myself free all my life of your bullying, but Keith doesn't have that kind of time.
Because if you don't undo what you caused, I'm going to go ahead with the twin trance
anyway-the twin trance, Seena-without the sexual component and without letting
Bohentin know just how much greater the strain is in trance than he thinks it is. He
doesn't know, he doesn't have a twin, and neither do the doctors. But I know, and if I
push it much farther I'm going to eventually die at it. Soon eventually. When I do, all
your scheming to get me out of there really will have failed and you'll be alone with
whatever it is you're so afraid of. But I don't think you'll let that happen.

   "I think that instead you'll undo what you did to Keith, so that the experiment can
have one last real chance. And in return, after that one chance, I'll agree to come
home, to Boston or here to New York, for one year.

   "That's my gamble."

   She was looking at me from eyes empty of all tears, a Devrie I had not ever seen
before. She meant it, every demented word, and she would do it. I wanted to scream at
her, to scream a jumble of suicide and moral blackmail and warped perceptions and
outrage, but the words that came out of my mouth came out in a whisper.

   "What in God's name is worth thatT'

    Shockingly, she laughed, a laugh of more power than her wasted frame could have
contained. Her face glowed, and the glow looked both exalted and insane. "You said
it, Seena- in God's name. To finally know. To know, beyond the fogginess of faith,
that we're not alone in the universe… Faith should not mean fogginess." She laughed
again, this time defensively, as if she knew how she sounded to me. "You'll do it,
Seena." It was not a question. She took my hand.

   "You would kill yourself?"

   "No. I would die trying to reach God. It's not the same thing."
   "I never bullied you, Devrie."

   She dropped my hand. "All my life, Seena. And on into now. But all of your
bullying and your scorn would look rather stupid, wouldn't it, if there really can be
proved to exist a rational basis for what you laughed at all those years!''

   We looked at each other, sisters, across the abyss of the pale sofa, and then
suddenly away. Neither of us dared speak.

   My plane landed on Dominica by night. Devrie had gone two days before me,
returning with her doctor and guards on the same day she had left, as I had on my
previous visit. I had never seen the island at night. The tropical greenery, lush with
that faintly menacing suggestion of plant life gone wild, seemed to close in on me. The
velvety darkness seemed to smell of ginger, and flowers, and the sea-all too strong, too
blandly sensual, like an overdone perfume ad. At the hotel it was better; my room was
on the second floor, above the dark foliage, and did not face the sea. Nonetheless, I
stayed inside all that evening, all that darkness, until I could go the next day to the
Institute of the Biological Hope.

   "Hello, Seena."

   "Keith. You look-"

    "Rotten," he finished, and waited. He did not smile. Although he had lost some
weight, he was nowhere near as skeletal as Devrie, and it gave me a pang I did not
analyze to see his still-healthy body in the small gray room where last I had seen hers.
His head was shaved, and without the curling brown hair he looked sterner,
prematurely middle-aged. That, too, gave me a strange emotion, although it was not
why he looked rotten. The worst was his eyes. Red-veined, watery, the sockets already
a little sunken, they held the sheen of a man who was not forgiving somebody for
something. Me? Himself? Devrie? I had lain awake all night, schooling myself for this
insane interview, and still I did not know what to say. What does one say to persuade a
man to sexual potency with one's sister so that her life might be saved? I felt
ridiculous, and frightened, and-I suddenly realized the name of my strange emotion-
humiliated. How could I even start to slog toward what I was supposed to reach?
   "How goes the Great Experiment?"

   "Not as you described it," he said, and we were there already. I looked at him
evenly.

   "You can't understand why I presented the Institute in the worst possible light."

   "I can understand that."

   "Then you can't understand why I bedded you, knowing about Bohentin's
experiment."

   "I can also understand that."

   Something was wrong. Keith answered me easily, without restraint, but with
conflict gritty beneath his voice, like sand beneath blowing grass. I stepped closer, and
he flinched. But his expression did not change.

    "Keith. What is this about? What am I doing here? Devrie said you couldn't… that
you were impotent with her, confused enough about who and what…" I trailed off. He
still had not changed expression.

   I said quietly, "It was a simplistic idea in the first place. Only someone as simplistic
as Devrie…" Only someone as simplistic as Devrie would think you could straighten
out impotency by talking about it for a few hours. I turned to go, and I had gotten as
far as laying my hand on the doorknob before Keith grasped my arm. Back to him, I
squeezed my eyes shut. What in God would I have done if he had not stopped me?

   "It's not what Devrie thinks!" With my back to him, not able to see his middle-aged
baldness but only to hear the anguish in his voice, he again seemed young, uncertain,
the boy I had bought coffee for in Indian Falls. I kept my back to him, and my voice
carefully toneless.

   "What is it, then, Keith? If not what Devrie thinks?"

   "I don't know!"
   "But you do know what it's not? It's not being confused about who is your sister
and who your mother and who you're willing to have sex with in front of a room full
of researchers?"

   "No." His voice had gone hard again, but his hand stayed on my arm. "At first, yes.
The first time. But, Seena-I felt it. Almost. I almost felt the presence, and then all the
rest of the confusion-it didn't seem as important anymore. Not the confusion between
you and Devrie."

   I whirled to face him. "You mean God doesn't care whom you fuck if it gets you
closer to fucking with Him."

  He looked at me hard then-at me, not at his own self-absorption. His reddened eyes
widened a little. "Why, Seena- you care. You told me the brother-sister thing didn't
matter anymore-but you care.''

    Did I? I didn't even know anymore. I said, "But, then, I'm not deluding myself that
it's all for the old Kingdom and the Glory."

  "Glory," he repeated musingly, and finally let go of my arm. I couldn't tell what he
was thinking.

   "Keith. This isn't getting us anywhere."

  "Where do you want to get?" he said in the same musing tone. "Where did any of
you, starting with your father, want to get with me? Glory… glory."

   Standing this close to him, seeing close up the pupils of his eyes and smelling close
up the odor of his sweat, I finally realized what I should have seen all along: he was
glowing. He was of course constantly on Bohentin's program of neuro-transmitter
manipulation, but the same chemicals that made the experiments possible also raised
the threshhold of both frankness and suggestibility. I guessed it must be a little like the
looseness of being drunk, and I wondered if perhaps Bohentin might have deliberately
raised the dosage before letting this interview take place. But no, Bohentin wouldn't be
aware of the bargain Devrie and I had struck; she would not have told him. The whole
bizarre situation was hers alone, and Keith's drugged musings a fortunate side-effect I
would have to capitalize on.
   "Where do you think my father wanted to get with you?" I asked him gently.

   "Immortality. Godhead. The man who created Adam without Eve."

   He was becoming maudlin. "Hardly 'the man,' " I pointed out. "My father was only
one of a team of researchers. And the same results were being obtained independently
in California."

   "Results. I am a 'result.' What do you think he wanted, Seena?"

   "Scientific knowledge of cell development. An objective truth."

   "That's all Devrie wants."

   "To compare bioengineering to some mystic quest-"

   "Ah, but if the mystic quest is given a laboratory answer? Then it, too, becomes a
scientific truth. You really hate that idea, don't you, Seena? You hate science
validating anything you define as non-science."

   I said stiffly, "That's rather an oversimplification."

   "Then what do you hate?"

   "I hate the risk to human bodies and human minds. To Devrie. To you."

  "How nice of you to include me," he said, smiling. "And what do you think Devrie
wants?"

   "Sensation. Romantic religious emotion. To be all roiled up inside with delicious
esoterica."

   He considered this. "Maybe."

  "And is that what you want as well, Keith? You've asked what everyone else wants.
What do you want?"
   "I want to feel at home in the universe. As if I belonged in it. And 1 never have."

   He said this simply, without self-consciousness, and the words themselves were
predictable enough for his age-even banal. There was nothing in the words that could
account for my eyes suddenly filling with tears. "And 'scientifically' reaching God
would do that for you?"

   "How do I know until I try it? Don't cry, Seena."

   "I'm not!"

   "All right," he agreed softly. "You're not crying." Then he added, without changing
tone, "I am more like you than like Devrie."

   "How so?"

    "I think that Devrie has always felt that she belongs in the universe. She only wants
to find the… the coziest corner of it to curl up in. Like a cat. The coziest corner to curl
up in is

  God's lap. Aren't you surprised that I should be more like you than like the person I
was cloned from?"

   "No," I said. "Harder upbringing than Devrie's. I told you that first day: cloning is
only delayed twinning."

   He threw back his head and laughed, a sound that chilled my spine. Whatever his
conflict was, we were moving closer.

   "Oh no, Seena. You're so wrong. It's more than delayed twinning, all right. You
can't buy a real twin. You either have one or you don't. But you can buy yourself a
clone. Bought, paid for, kept on the books along with all the rest of the glassware and
holotanks and electron microscopes. You said so yourself, in your apartment, when
you first told me about Devrie and the Institute. 'Money. She'd buy you.' And you
were right, of course. Your father bought me, and she did, and you did. But of course
you two women couldn't have bought if I hadn't been selling."
   He was smiling still. Stupid-we had both been stupid, Devrie and I, we had both
been looking in the wrong place, misled by our separate blinders-on training in the
laboratory brain. My training had been scientific, hers humanistic, and so I looked at
Freud and she looked at Oedipus, and we were equally stupid. How did the world look
to a man who did not deal in laboratory brains, a man raised in a grittier world in
which limits were not what the mind was capable of but what the bank book would
stand? "Your genes are too expensive for you to claim except as a beggar; your sisters
are too expensive for you to claim except as a beggar; God is too expensive for you to
claim except as a beggar." To a less romantic man it would not have mattered, but a
less romantic man would not have come to the Institute. What dark humiliations and
resentments did Keith feel when he looked at Devrie, the self who was buyer and not
bought?

   Change the light you shine onto a mind, and you see different neural patterns,
different corridors, different forests of trees grown in soil you could not have
imagined. Run that soil through your fingers and you discover different pebbles,
different sand, different leaf mold from the decay of old growths. Devrie and I had
been hacking through the wrong forest.

   Not Oedipus, but Marx.

    Quick lines of attack came to me. Say: Keith it's a job like any other with high-
hazard pay why can't you look at it like that a very dangerous and well-paid job for
which you've been hired by just one more eccentric member of the monied class. Say:
You're entitled to the wealth you're our biological brother damn it consider it
rationally as a kinship entitlement. Say: Don't be so nicey-nice it's a tough world out
there and if Devrie's giving it away take it don't be an impractical chump.

   I said none of that. Instead I heard myself saying, coolly and with a calm cruelty,
"You're quite right. You were bought by Devrie, and she is now using her own
purchase for her own ends. You're a piece of equipment bought and paid for.
Unfortunately, there's no money in the account. It has all been a grand sham."

  Keith jerked me to face him with such violence that my neck cracked. "What are
you saying?"
   The words came as smoothly, as plausibly, as if I had rehearsed them. I didn't even
consciously plan them: how can you plan a lie you do not know you will need? I
slashed through this forest blind, but the ground held under my feet.

   "Devrie told me that she has signed over most of her inheritance to you. What she
didn't know, because I haven't yet told her, is that she doesn't have control of her
inheritance any longer. It's not hers. I control it. I had her declared mentally
incompetent on the grounds of violent suicidal tendencies and had myself made her
legal guardian. She no longer has the legal right to control her fortune. A doctor
observed her when she came to visit me in New York. So the transfer of her fortune to
you is invalid."

   "The lawyers who gave me the papers to sign-"

   "Will learn about the New York action this week," I said smoothly. How much
inheritance law did Keith know? Probably very little. Neither did I, and I invented
furiously; it only needed to sound plausible. "The New York courts only handed down
their decision recently, and Dominican judicial machinery, like everything else in the
tropics, moves slowly. But the ruling will hold, Keith. Devrie does not control her own
money, and you're a pauper again. But / have something for you. Here. An airline
ticket back to Indian Falls. You're a free man. Poor, but free. The ticket is in your
name, and there's a check inside it-that's from me. You've earned it, for at least trying
to aid poor Devrie. But now you're going to have to leave her to me. I'm now her legal
guardian."

   I held the ticket out to him. It was wrapped in its airline folder; my own name as
passenger was hidden. Keith stared at it, and then at me.

  I said softly, "I'm sorry you were cheated. Devrie didn't mean to. But she has no
money, now, to offer you. You can go. Devrie's my burden now."

   His voice sounded strangled. "To remove from the Institute?"

   "I never made any secret of wanting her out. Although the legal papers for that will
take a little time to filter through the Dominican courts. She wouldn't go except by
force, so force is what I'll get. Here."
   I thrust the ticket folder at him. He made no move to take it, and I saw from the
hardening of his face-my face, Devrie's face-the moment when Devrie shifted forests
in his mind. Now she was without money, without legal control of her life, about to be
torn from the passion she loved most. The helpless underdog. The orphaned woman,
poor and cast out, in need of protection from the powerful who had seized her fortune.

   Not Marx, but Cervantes.

   "You would do that? To your own sister?"

   Anything for a sister. I said bitterly, "Of course I would."

   "She's not mentally incompetent!"

   "Isn't she?"

   "No!"

   I shrugged. "The courts say she is."

   Keith studied me, resolve hardening around him. I thought of certain shining
crystals, that will harden around any stray piece of grit. Now that I was succeeding in
convincing him, my lies hurt-or perhaps what hurt was how easily he believed them.

   "Are you sure, Seena," he said, "that you aren't just trying a grab for Devrie's
fortune?"

  I shrugged again, and tried to make my voice toneless. "I want her out of here. I
don't want her to die."

   "Die? What makes you think she would die?"

   "She looks-"

   "She's nowhere near dying," Keith said angrily-his anger a release, so much that it
hardly mattered at what. "Don't you think I can tell in twin trance what her exact
physical state is? And don't you know how much control the trance gives each twin
over the bodily processes of the other? Don't you even know that? Devrie isn't
anywhere near dying. And I'd pull her out of trance if she were." He paused, looking
hard at me. "Keep your ticket, Seena."

   I repeated mechanically, "You can leave now. There's no money." Devrie had lied
to me.

   "That wouldn't leave her with any protection at all, would it?" he said levelly.
When he grasped the doorknob to leave, the tendons in his wrist stood out clearly,
strong and taut. I did not try to stop his going.

   Devrie had lied to me. With her lie, she had blackmailed me into yet another lie to
Keith. The twin trance granted control, in some unspecified way, to each twin's body;
the trance I had pioneered might have resulted in eight deaths unknowingly inflicted
on each other out of who knows what dark forests in eight fumbling minds. Lies,
blackmail, death, more lies.

   Out of these lies they were going to make scientific truth. Through these forests
they were going to search for God.

   "Final clearance check of holotanks," an assistant said formally. "Faraday cage?"

   "Optimum."

   "External radiation?"

   "Cleared," said the man seated at the console of the first tank.

   "Cleared," said the woman seated at the console of the second.

   "Microradiation?"

   "Cleared."

   "Cleared."

   "Personnel radiation, Class A?"
   "Cleared."

   "Cleared."

    On it went, the whole tedious and crucial procedure, until both tanks had been
cleared and focused, the fluid adjusted, tested, adjusted again, tested again. Bohentin
listened patiently, without expression, but I, standing to the side of him and behind the
tanks, saw the nerve at the base of his neck and just below the hairline pulse in some
irregular rhythm of its own. Each time the nerve pulsed, the skin rose slightly from
under his collar. I kept my eyes on that syncopated crawling of flesh, and felt tension
prickle over my own skin like heat.

   Three-quarters of the lab, the portion where the holotanks and other machinery
stood, was softly dark, lit mostly from the glow of console dials and the indirect track
lighting focused on the tanks. Standing in the gloom were Bohentin, five other
scientists, two medical doctors-and me. Bohentin had fought my being allowed there,
but in the end he had had to give in. I had known too many threatening words not in
generalities but in specifics: reporters' names, drug names, cloning details, twin trance
tragedy, anorexia symptoms, bio-engineering amendment. He was not a man who
much noticed either public opinion or relatives' threats, but no one else outside his
Institute knew so many specific words- some people knew some of the words, but only
I had them all. In the end he had focused on me his cold, brilliant eyes, and given
permission for me to witness the experiment that involved my sister.

   I was going to hold Devrie to her bargain. I was not going to believe anything she
told me without witnessing it for myself.

   Half the morning passed in technical preparation. Somewhere Devrie and Keith, the
human components of this costly detection circuit, were separately being brought to
the apex of brain activity. Drugs, biofeedback, tactile and auditory and kinaesthetic
stimulation-all carefully calculated for the maximum increase of both the number of
neurotransmitters firing signals through the synapses of the brain and of the speed at
which the signals raced. The more rapid the transmission through certain pathways,
the more intense both perception and feeling. Some neurotransmitters, under this
pressure, would alter molecular structure into natural hallucinogens; that reaction had
to be controlled. Meanwhile other drugs, other biofeedback techniques, would depress
the body's natural enzymes designed to either reabsorb excess transmitters or to reduce
the rate at which they fired. The number and speed of neurotransmitters in Keith's and
Devrie's brains would mount, and mount, and mount, all natural chemical barriers
removed. The two of them would enter the lab with their whole brains- rational cortex,
emotional limbic, right and left brain functions- simultaneously aroused to an
unimaginable degree. Simultaneously. They would be feeling as great a "rush" as a
falling skydiver, as great a glow as a cocaine user, as great a mental clarity and
receptivity as a da Vinci whose brush is guided by all the integrated visions of his
unconscious mind. They would be white-hot.

   Then they would hit each other with the twin trance.

    The quarter of the lab which Keith and Devrie would use was softly and indirectly
lit, though brighter than the rest. It consisted of a raised, luxuriantly padded platform,
walls and textured pillows in a pink whose component wavelengths had been carefully
calculated, temperature in a complex gradient producing precise convection flows over
the skin. The man and woman in that womb-colored, flesh-stimulating environment
would be able to see us observers standing in the gloom behind the holotanks only as
vague shapes. When the two doors opened and Devrie and Keith moved onto the
platform, I knew that they would not even try to distinguish who stood in the lab.
Looking at their faces, that looked only at each other, I felt my heart clutch.

   They were naked except for the soft helmets that both attached hundreds of needles
to nerve clumps just below the skin and also held the earphones through which
Bohentin controlled the music that swelled the cathedrals of their skulls. "Cathedrals"-
from their faces, transfigured to the ravished ecstasy found in paintings of medieval
saints, that was the right word. But here the ecstasy was controlled, understood, and I
saw with a sudden rush of pain at old memories that I could recognize the exact
moment when Keith and Devrie locked onto each other with the twin trance. I
recognized it, with my own more bitter hyperclarity, in their eyes, as I recognized the
cast of concentration that came over their features, and the intensity of their
absorption. The twin trance. They clutched each other's hands, faces inches apart, and
suddenly I had to look away.

   Each holotank held two whorls of shifting colors, the outlines clearer and the
textures more sharply delineated than any previous holographs in the history of
science. Keith's and Devrie's perceptions of each other's presence. The whorls went on
clarifying themselves, separating into distinct and mappable layers, as on the platform
Keith and Devrie remained frozen, all their energies focused on the telepathic trance.
Seconds passed, and then minutes. And still, despite the clarity of the holographs in
the tank, a clarity that fifteen years earlier I would have given my right hand for, I
sensed that Keith and Devrie were holding back, were deliberately confining their
unimaginable perceptiveness to each other's radiant energy, in the same way that water
is confined behind a dam to build power.

   But how could / be sensing that? From a subliminal "reading" of the mapped
perceptions in the holotanks? Or from something else?

   More minutes passed. Keith and Devrie stayed frozen, facing each other, and over
her skeletal body and his stronger one a flush began to spread, rosy and slow, like heat
tide rising.

   "Jesus H. Christ," said one of the medical doctors, so low that only I, standing
directly behind her, could have heard. It was not a curse, nor a prayer, but some third
possibility, unnameable.

    Keith put one hand on Devrie's thigh. She shuddered. He drew her down to the
cushions on the platform and they began to caress each other, not frenzied, not in the
exploring way of lovers but with a deliberation I have never experienced outside a
research lab, a slow care that implied that worlds of interpretation hung on each
movement. Yet the effect was not of coldness nor detachment but of intense
involvement, of tremendous energy joyously used, of creating each other's bodies right
then, there under each other's hands. They were working, and oblivious to all but their
work. But if it was a kind of creative work, it was also a kind of primal innocent
eroticism, and, watching, I felt my own heat begin to rise. "Innocent"-but if innocence
is unknowingness, there was nothing innocent about it at all. Keith and Devrie knew
and controlled each heartbeat, and I felt the exact moment when they let their sexual
energies, added to all the other neural energies, burst the dam and flood outward in
wave after wave, expanding the scope of each brain's perceptions, inundating the
artificially-walled world.

   A third whorl formed in each holotank.

   It formed suddenly: one second nothing, the next brightness. But then it wavered,
faded a bit. After a few moments it brightened slightly, a diffused golden haze, before
again fading. On the platform Keith gasped, and I guessed he was having to shift his
attention between perceiving the third source of radiation and keeping up the erotic
version of the twin trance. His biofeedback techniques were less experienced than
Devrie's, and the male erection more fragile. But then he caught the rhythm, and the
holograph brightened.

   It seemed to me that the room brightened as well, although no additional lights
came on and the consoles glowed no brighter. Sweat poured off the researchers.
Bohentin leaned forward, his neck muscle tautening toward the platform as if it were
his will and not Keith/Devrie's that strained to perceive that third presence recorded in
the tank. I thought, stupidly, of mythical intermediaries: Merlyn never made king,
Moses never reaching the Promised Land. Intermediaries- and then it became
impossible to think of anything at all.

    Devrie shuddered and cried out. Keith's orgasm came a moment later, and with it a
final roil of neural activity so strong the two primary whorls in each holotank swelled
to fill the tank and inundate the third. At the moment of breakthrough Keith screamed,
and in memory it seems as if the scream was what tore through the last curtain-that is
nonsense. How loud would microbes have to scream to attract the attention of giants?
How loud does a knock on the door have to be to pull a sleeper from the alien world of
dreams?

   The doctor beside me fell to her knees. The third presence- or some part of it-
swirled all around us, racing along our own unprepared synapses and neurons, and
what swirled and raced was astonishment. A golden, majestic astonishment. We had
finally attracted Its attention, finally knocked with enough neural force to be just
barely heard-and It was astonished that we could, or did, exist. The slow rise of that
powerful astonishment within the shielded lab was like the slow swinging around of
the head of a great beast to regard some butterfly it has barely glimpsed from the
corner of one eye. But this was no beast. As Its attention swung toward us, pain
exploded in my skull-the pain of sound too loud, lights too bright, charge too high. My
brain was burning on overload. There came one more flash of insight-wordless, pat-
tern without end-and the sound of screaming. Then, abruptly, the energy vanished.

   Bohentin, on all fours, crawled toward the holotanks. The doctor lay slumped on
the floor; the other doctor had already reached the platform and its two crumpled
figures. Someone was crying, someone else shouting. I rose, fell, dragged myself to
the side of the platform and then could not climb it. I could not climb the platform.
Hanging with two hands on the edge, hearing the voice crying as my own, I watched
the doctor bend shakily to Keith, roll him off Devrie to bend over her, turn back to
Keith.

   Bohentin cried, "The tapes are intact!"

   "Oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God," someone moaned, until abruptly she
stopped. I grasped the flesh-colored padding on top of the platform and pulled myself
up onto it.

   Devrie lay unconscious, pulse erratic, face cast in perfect bliss. The doctor breathed
into Keith's mouth-what strength could the doctor himself have left?-and pushed on
the naked chest. Breathe, push, breathe, push. The whole length of Keith's body
shuddered; the doctor rocked back on his heels; Keith breathed.

   "It's all on tape!" Bohentin cried. "It's all on tapeV

  "God damn you to hell," I whispered to Devrie's blissful face. "It didn't even know
we were there!"

   Her eyes opened. I had to lean close to hear her answer.

   "But now… we know He… is there."

   She was too weak to smile. I looked away from her, away from that face, out into
the tumultuous emptiness of the lab, anywhere.

   They will try again.

    Devrie has been asleep, fed by glucose solution through an IV, for fourteen hours. I
sit near her bed, frowned at by the nurse, who can see my expression as I stare at my
sister. Somewhere in another bed Keith is sleeping yet again. His rest is more fitful
than Devrie's; she sinks into sleep as into warm water, but he cannot. Like me, he is
afraid of drowning.
    An hour ago he came into Devrie's room and grasped my hand. "How could It-He-
It not have been aware that we existed? Not even have knownT'

   I didn't answer him.

   "You felt it too, Seena, didn't you? The others say they could, so you must have
too. It… created us in some way. No, that's wrong. How could It create us and not
knowT'

   I said wearily, "Do we always know what we've created?" and Keith glanced at me
sharply. But I had not been referring to my father's work in cloning.

   "Keith. What's a Thysania Africana?"

   "A what?"

   "Think of us," I said, "as just one more biological side-effect. One type of being
acts, and another type of being comes into existence. Man stages something like the
African Horror, and in doing so he creates whole new species of moths and doesn't
even discover they exist until long afterward. If man can do it, why not God? And why
should He be any more aware of it than we are?"

  Keith didn't like that. He scowled at me, and then looked at Devrie's sleeping face:
Devrie's sleeping bliss.

   "Because she is a fool," I said savagely, "and so are you. You won't leave it alone,
will you? Having been noticed by It once, you'll try to be noticed by It again. Even
though she promised me otherwise, and even if it kills you both."

    Keith looked at me a long time, seeing clearly-finally- the nature of the abyss
between us, and its dimensions. But I already knew neither of us could cross. When at
last he spoke, his voice held so much compassion that I hated him. "Seena. Seena,
love. There's no more doubt now, don't you see? Now rational belief is no harder than
rational doubt. Why are you so afraid to even believe?"

   I left the room. In the corridor I leaned against the wail, palms spread flat against
the tile, and closed my eyes. It seemed to me that I could hear wings, pale and fragile,
beating against glass.

    They will try again. For the sake of sure knowledge that the universe is not empty,
Keith and Devrie and all the others like their type of being will go on pushing their
human brains beyond what the human brain has evolved to do, go on fluttering their
wings against that biological window. For the sake of sure knowledge: belief founded
on experiment and not on faith. And the Other: being/alien/God? It, too, may choose
to initiate contact, if It can and now that It knows we are here. Perhaps It will seek to
know us, and even beyond the laboratory Devrie and Keith may find any moment of
heightened arousal subtly invaded by a shadowy Third. Will they sense It, hovering
just beyond consciousness, if they argue fiercely or race a sailboat in rough water or
make love? How much arousal will it take, now, for them to sense those huge wings
beating on the other side of the window?

   And windows can be broken.

   Tomorrow I will fly back to New York. To my museum, to my exhibits, to my
moths under permaplex, to my empty apartment, where I will keep the heavy drapes
drawn tightly across the glass.

   For-oh God-all the rest of my life.