Free The Whole Man by John Brunner

examinations their specialists had given him—and this hospital at Ulan Bator was the main therapy center for WHO in all Asia, with staff commensurate—there were such minor luxuries as this chair in which he sat. It was subtly designed to accommodate him, Gerald Howson; it was smaller than usual, and the padding matched his deformities. The bed was designed for him, too, and the equipment in the adjacent bathroom, and everything.
    But he didn’t want that. It was the same as being helped onto a crowded bus: a hateful reminder of his handicap.
    There came a tapping at the door. Automatically he turned his attention to the visitor—no, visitors. So far he had accepted almost no formal training in the use of his talent, but there were trained telepathists on the permanent staff of the hospital, and merely being close to them had increased his control and sensitivity. He couldn’t help admiring them—who could? But so far he had learned nothing about them which reconciled him to being what they were not: a runt, and deformed into the bargain.
    He said, both aloud and telepathically, in a tone hinged with weariness, “All right, come in.”
    Pandit Singh was the first to enter. A burly man running to fat, with a neatly combed beard and sharp bright eyes, he was the head of therapy A—responsible, in other words, for all neurological and psychological treatment undertaken at the hospital. People, including Howson, liked him; Howson had been impressed by the fact that his sympathy was always colored by determination to do something if possible. Too many people’s pity was soured by relief that they at least were physically whole.
    Along with him had come Danny Waldemar and one of the staff neurologists, a woman named Christine Bakwa, whom Howson had met previously in one of the many examination rooms he had been taken to. She wasn’t good at disciplining her verbalized thoughts, the most easily accessible to a casual telepathic “glance,” and even before she entered the room Howson had learned from her most of what Singh had to say.
    Nonetheless, he made a curt gesture indicating that they should sit down, and turned his own chair on its smoothly operating casters to face Singh.
    “Morning, Gerry,” Singh said. “I hear your girl friend was around to see you. How is she? I meant to have a word with her, but I was too busy.”
    “She’s getting on well,” Howson said. She was; she was becoming used to the impulses given off by the trembler coils deft surgeons had inserted in her ears, and the bio-activated plastic vocal cords that had replaced her own. There was promise that she would stumble into possession of a musical, if hesitant, speaking voice once she had completed training. Howson slapped down envy at her childish joy, and added the question to which he already sensed the answer.
    “And how about me?”
    Singh looked at him steadily. He said, “You know I have bad news for you. I couldn’t conceivably hide the fact.”
    “Spell it out,” Howson said stubbornly.
    “Very well.” Singh sighed. He gestured to Christine Bakwa, and she gave him a folder of papers from a portfolio she was carrying. Selecting the topmost enclosure, he continued, “To begin with, Gerry, there’s the question of your grandfather—your mother’s father.”
    “He died long before I was born,” Howson muttered.
    “That’s right. Were you ever told why he died so young?”
    Howson shook his head.“I guess I knew my mother didn’t like talking about it, so I never pushed the point to an answer.”
    “Well, she must have known. He was what they call a hemophiliac—in other words, a bleeder, whose normal supply of thrombic enzyme was absent. He ought never to have had children. But he did, and through your mother you inherited the condition.”
    “I told you this,” Danny Waldemar put in. “When we were taking you aboard the helicopter—remember? I told you we’d given you prothrombin, which is an artificial clotting