Cordelia's Honor - Lois McMaster Bujold [82]
Commodore Tailor suppressed a smile. "Well, I didn't vote for him. Steady Freddy is not my main concern. Although," he cleared his throat, "he has taken a personal interest in your case. You're a public figure now, like it or not."
"Oh, nonsense."
"It's not nonsense. You have an obligation."
Who are you quoting, Bill? thought Cordelia. That's not your voice. She rubbed the back of her neck. "I thought I'd discharged all my obligations. What more do they want from me?"
Tailor shrugged. "It was thought—I was given to understand—that you could have a future as a spokesman for—for the government. Due to your war experience. Once you're well."
Cordelia snorted. "They've got some awfully strange illusions about my soldierly career. Look—as far as I'm concerned, Steady Freddy can put on falsies and go woo the hermaphrodite vote in Quartz. But I'm n-not going to play the part of a, a propaganda cow, to be milked by any party. I've an aversion to politics, to quote a friend."
"Well . . ." He shrugged, as though he too had discharged a duty, and went on more firmly. "Be that as it may, getting you fit for work again is my concern."
"I'm—I'll be all right, after m-my month's leave. I just need a rest. I want to go back to Survey."
"And so you can. Just as soon as you're medically cleared."
"Oh." The implications of that took a moment to sink in. "Oh, no—wait a minute. I had a little p-problem with Dr. Sprague. Very nice lady, her reasoning was sound, but her premises were wrong."
Commodore Tailor gazed at her sadly. "I think I'd better turn you over to Dr. Mehta, now. She'll explain everything. You will cooperate with her, won't you, Cordelia?"
Cordelia pursed her lips, chilled. "Let me get this straight. What you're saying is, if I can't make your shrink happy, I'll never set foot on a Survey ship again. No c-command—no job, in fact."
"That's—a very harsh way of putting it. But you know yourself, for Survey, with small groups of people isolated together for extended periods of time, the psych profiles are of the utmost importance."
"Yes, I know. . . ." She twitched her mouth into a smile. "I'll c-cooperate. S-sure."
Chapter Thirteen
"Now," said Dr. Mehta cheerfully, setting up her box on a table in the Naismiths' apartment next afternoon, "this is a completely non-invasive method of monitoring. You won't feel a thing, it won't do a thing to you, except give me clues as to which subjects are of subconscious importance to you." She paused to swallow a capsule, remarking, "Allergy. Excuse me. Think of it as an emotional dowsing rod, looking for those buried streams of experience."
"Telling you where to drill the well, eh?"
"Exactly. Do you mind if I smoke?"
"Go ahead."
Mehta lit an aromatic cigarette and set it casually in an ashtray she had brought with her. The smoke drifted toward Cordelia. She squinted at its acridity. Odd perversion for a doctor; well, we all have our weaknesses. She eyed the box, suppressing irritation.
"Now for a baseline," said Mehta. "July."
"Am I supposed to say August, or something?"
"No, it's not a free-association test—the machine will do the work. But you may, if you wish."
"That's all right."
"Twelve."
Apostles, thought Cordelia. Eggs. Days of Christmas.
"Death."
Birth, thought Cordelia. Those upper-class Barrayarans put everything into their children. Name, property, culture, even their government's continuity. A huge burden, no wonder the children bend and twist under the strain.
"Birth."
Death, thought Cordelia. A man without a son is a walking ghost there, with no part in their future. And when their government fails, they pay the price in their children's lives. Five thousand.
Mehta moved her ashtray a little to the left. It didn't help; made it worse, in fact.
"Sex."
Not likely, with me here and him there . . .
"Seventeen."
Canisters, thought Cordelia. Wonder how those poor desperate little scraps of life are doing?
Dr. Mehta frowned uncertainly at her readouts. "Seventeen?" she repeated.
Eighteen, Cordelia thought firmly. Dr. Mehta made a