The Great Wheel by Ian R. MacLeod Page A

moments, he always felt torn between screaming out and falling asleep. “The Church,” he said, “supports all positive measures to bring about enlightenment.”
    “Enlightenment. Good. Now, moving on…” The air was stifling. Feeling faintly sick, the muscle in his cheek hammering faster than ever, John looked down again at his screen.
    He had a late lunch with Tim Purdoe in the cozy fog of wood, brass, and firelight that was Thrials, the Zone’s best restaurant, and thanked him, as the food arrived, for his help in getting the clinic’s doctor fixed.
    Tim impaled an asparagus tip with his fork. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forgot.”
    “Seriously.”
    “Look—” Tim dabbed butter from his chin. “I promise I’ll get around to it.”
    “It’s been fixed. The engineer actually came to the clinic in a veetol, oh, a week back.”
    “A veetol? ” Tim speared another tip. “Much as I’d like to take the credit, John, it wasn’t me.”
    “Well, it’s fixed anyway.”
    “Good. That’s great.”
    John was eating grilled steak; the cheapest item on the menu, although, as usual, Tim was paying for both of them. The food here was brought fresh on the shuttle in chilled containers. Meals cost a Borderer’s monthly wage.
    “Another beer, I think.”
    “Not for me.”
    “Take a soberup.”
    “It’s not the same.”
    “Sometimes, John…” Tim put down his fork and reached over to touch John’s bare ungloved hand. Without thinking, John pulled away.
    Tim shook his head. “You really do need to lighten up.”
    “I have to go and visit someone later. He’s a family man called Martínez, and he’s dying.”
    “He doesn’t know?”
    “No.”
    “Will you tell him?”
    “I’ll try to play it by ear. I can’t just decide, can I—sitting here? I’ll have to wait and see. Isn’t that what you’d do?”
    Tim shrugged. “Working here, I really can’t say I have that much…”
    “Here, everything’s different, isn’t it? Here—and out there.”
    “Isn’t that why you came?”
    John pushed away his mostly untouched plate of food—the smell of freshly cooked meat was starting to disgust him, anyway—and saw, as he did so, that Tim was staring at the screen of his watch, the tiny flashing lines of AGTC, as if they contained some kind of message. He covered it with his sleeve.
    “Tim—there’s a link between cancer and radiation?”
    “Well, yes.”
    “That would apply to cancers of the blood?”
    “Which one?”
    “Acute myeloid leukemia.”
    “Like that woman? The one that died?” The brown-eyed waitress placed a fresh beer beside Tim. He sipped, trying not to frown. He really didn’t like giving specific advice on cases at the clinic. “Okay. Yes, leukemia could be caused by cell damage from radiation…Although there are viral, chemical, other factors.”
    “I’ve come across several cases like it, Tim. In the clinic, and in the doctor’s records. I think there may be some specific and avoidable cause.”
    “And so you thought about radiation?”
    “The Borderers are so naturally tough and resistant…I can’t believe there isn’t some external factor. Is it likely that they could somehow be exposed to radiation levels high enough to cause cancer? I mean, just this one specific kind. You must have access to figures on the net. We Europeans would be at risk from cell damage, too.”
    “We’re not at risk, John.” Tim raised his beer and drank, adding a line of foam to his lip. “Your viruses would easily recode a few precancerous cells.”
    “It’s the Borderers I’m concerned about.”
    “Of course. The Gogs.” Tim paused, gazing out the window, suppressing, John suspected, a professional’s irritation with the dabblings of amateurs in his field. Outside, along the covered brownstone paving of Main Avenue, it was May and the cherry trees were losing their blossoms, scattering pink and white.
    “Ordinarily,” Tim continued, turning back towards John,