The Great Wheel by Ian R. MacLeod Page B

“you’re talking about lowish levels of radiation, here or anywhere else. There are solar rays out beyond the Last Hammada, and the products of old power station meltdowns, but you know that most of the nuclear arsenals were never used, and a lot of early climate control was directed towards scrubbing the skies clean above Europe anyway. The climate got almost the same benefit here. That was why the Gogs came.”
    “That’s history.”
    The sweets arrived. Thrials specialized in architectural constructs of chocolate, toffee, and fudge to make up for the relative delicacy of their main courses. Tim had chosen a zero, calorie version, but to John that seemed a pointless final extravagance.
    “So you’re saying that radiation levels in the Magulf aren’t exceptionally high?”
    “There must be hot spots—I’m sure there were a few local conflicts and meltdowns—but many of the real nasties such as the iodine and thorium isotopes have a relatively short half-life. Others, like carbon 14, will be thinly distributed throughout the world. It’s nearly all long gone, or left in tiny quantities.”
    “What do you mean? Nearly all?”
    “I suppose a few could still be in the food chain around here. Something the Gogs are eating and we’re not. Something odd that hasn’t shown up.”
    “And no one ever tested for it?”
    “For what? You said yourself you don’t know.”
    “I’d just like to get to the truth.”
    “There’s a difference between facts and the truth, you know.” Tim lifted his spoon and excavated a syrupy lump from his dessert.
    “About those radiation levels,” John said, “my doctor’s useless. If I provided you with tissue and food samples, could you do some tests?”
    “For you,” Tim said, his spoon still poised, “I’ll do some tests. But I do have one question.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Just what do you expect to do with the truth if you find it?”
    “The truth,” John said, “will lead the way to an answer.”
    He parted with Tim after lunch and wandered along Main Avenue past the flashy clothiers and flowersellers to the nearest booth. He sat down inside and called up the Zone’s directory from the net, finding the listing for Laurie Kalmar.
    Her face appeared on the screen.
    “Hello,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting your call…”
    She was smiling. Her eyes were silver again.
    “The doctor at my clinic’s been fixed,” he said. “A veetol came from the Zone. Which is about as likely as…” He took a breath. “Since I mentioned the problem when we talked in Trinity Gardens, I though it might be thanks to you.”
    “I really can’t say, Father John,” she said. “But of course I’ll tell Laurie what you said as soon as she’s available.”
    “You’re not Laurie—you’re just an answerer?”
    The face on the screen nodded. She was smiling, as if amused. “I’m just the answerer. I’m sorry if you were confused.”
    He glanced at the cursor at the side of the screen, but it gave no indication. Another trick, like the silver eyes.
    The answerer tilted her head, waiting for him to speak.
    “Anyway,” he said, “tell Laurie that if she ever goes into the Endless City, she should call in at the clinic sometime, and I’ll show her.”
    “Of course, Father John. Goodb—”
    He touched Exit, and sat for a moment. Then he called his parents, who still lived in the same house back in England.
    “John…It is you…” His father sat down before him. He had a habit of leaning forward towards his own screen, which extended his neck and distorted the image slightly. Faintly, John could hear birdsong, and could smell something cooking. “I was just saying this morning to your mother that it was about time you called.”
    “Dad, how are you?”
    “We’re fine. How are you?”
    John nodded. “I’m keeping well, thanks.”
    “Still curing the Gogs—Borderers?”
    “I do my best.” Ever since John could remember, his father had always called the