Ben Talmidge was feeling very pleased with himself. He’d treated his hangover with an adrenaline shot; now he paced the hall just beyond the reception area, humming with anticipation as he waited for Eric to arrive at the Institute.

Eric was feeling less than optimum. In addition to the lingering effects of the drink he’d consumed the night before, he felt muzzy and slow. Sleep had been elusive as he’d reviewed plan after plan for freeing Vivienne, and rejected them all. Without Talmidge’s new lock code, nothing seemed feasible.

He forced his face into a smile as he entered the Institute. There’s just time for a cup of good strong coffee, he decided. Make it look like business as usual.

“Eric, glad you’re early!” Talmidge greeted him heartily. “Got an unusual one today. One in a million, in fact!”

Eric was unpleasantly surprised. Nothing had been scheduled, and he’d banked on a routine day with time to think.

“It’s urgent,” Talmidge told him. “Life or death. Happened yesterday.” He waved an arm toward the OR. “And I’m giving you the honor of doing it. So scrub up.”

Eric didn’t move. “What’s the procedure?” he asked testily. “If it’s that important, don’t you think you could break a lifetime’s habit and give me a hint?”

“A little hung-over, are we?” Talmidge chided him. “A little out of sorts?” He peered at Rose owlishly. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right next to you the whole time. As I said, it’s really quite an honor. Now, scat!”

Eric shrugged his shoulders. Business as usual. Better get on with it.

“. . . and so one of you is called this very morning!” Talmidge’s voice rang out with energy and warmth as he addressed the cluster. “One of you is called for the highest honor possible.”

He looked out at the sea of faces. Their reactions appeared normal, yet he sensed a certain disquiet. He noticed that Anna and Charles had placed themselves toward the back of the room alongside the chair in which Vivienne half-sat, half-slumped. Talmidge had not ordered her to be sedated this morning, and she had come round sufficiently to know where she was, although she lacked the strength to do anything about it. Charles looked downcast, and Anna scowled. Vivienne had done her work well, thought Talmidge. Not that it mattered.

“Today one of you will join the ranks of the Givers,” Talmidge intoned dramatically. “And at the highest level.” He’d wanted Vivienne awake this morning so that she would understand what was going to happen. It was no fun if she didn’t understand.

Several blue-coated attendants began moving into position.

“Today’s Giver is someone who is new to your cluster,” he continued, “yet she has proved herself worthy of this honor in so many ways.”

He saw Anna take a step toward him, her face dark with rage. Slowly Charles reached out to put a protective arm around Vivienne’s shoulders, and only then did the slow shock of realization come into her face. As her eyes grew round with horror and fear, Talmidge felt a rush of pleasure.

“Vivienne,” he chanted, “today you will become a Giver.”

He saw with satisfaction how Vivienne attempted to free herself from the restraining strap around her body as Charles kneaded her shoulders in frustrated helplessness, staring at the nurse who now stood by the chair, hypodermic in hand.

Anna was struggling through the crowd toward Talmidge, her eyes blazing. “What will you do to her?” she called out. “What will she give?”

“Hers will be the ultimate honor,” Talmidge replied calmly. “She has been called for a heart transplant.”

Pleasure flooded through him as he heard Vivienne scream; only then did he nod to the nurse.

As the fast-acting drug coursed through Vivienne’s body, the nurse undid the restraining strap, and Vivienne slumped forward out of the chair, her head hitting the floor. Now other attendants moved in, pushing everyone away as they lifted the unconscious form onto a gurney.

Suddenly Talmidge felt a sharp pain. Ignored in the confusion, Anna had climbed the low platform and launched herself at him with teeth and nails. He hit her a hard backhand across the face, knocking her down into the crowd, blood from the cut across her mouth spattering those nearby. This sudden violence, the worst sin that could be committed in a cluster, stunned the clones into silent immobility.

In the resulting silence, the gurney rolled slowly toward the door, its wheels creaking softly on the tiled floor. For a moment, Talmidge surveyed the cowering men and women before him. Then he turned and followed the gurney out of the room.

Charles threw the rental car into a sharp turn, and a scattershot of pebbles rattled against the offside door. After two near-sleepless nights, he was exhausted, yet he felt keyed-up, energized by his tension. He’d been driving up into the hills for over an hour, and the wildness of the scenery, the feeling of isolation and drama, deepened his conviction that there was danger here, that Talmidge had lied.

He recalled his father’s descriptions of the Institute in its early days, and his own reluctance to see it for himself. And yet, why should he be so fearful? Wasn’t it a scientific miracle?

But Vivienne’s actions had caused him to consider for the first time the moral repugnance of something he’d been raised to believe was his birthright. Coming face-to-face with the workings of the Institute would force him into a judgment, a decision he desperately didn’t want to make. How he wished none of this had happened.

And how dare Ben Talmidge lie to him! He’d withdraw his financial support, he’d hit Ben where it hurt. It vaguely occurred to him that Talmidge probably had alternate sources of financing by now, but surely there was some way he could strike back at Ben. Anger surged within him.

He drove faster, racing the car around the bends, pushing it up the steep rises. How would he handle Talmidge? What would he say? If he demanded to see Vivienne and Talmidge denied she was there, what then? He hit the steering wheel in frustration. This was Spain, Talmidge’s turf. He had no clout here, no resources. What if Talmidge was armed?

No, of course, Ben wouldn’t shoot him, what was he thinking of? Surely this was just a simple misunderstanding. Vivienne would be quite safe; she’d probably laugh at his concern. In an hour or two, they’d be driving back to Barcelona together.

He pulled the car through the next turn and stamped hard on the accelerator. It was so goddamn hard to know what to do.

Eric left the sink, backing through the double doors into the lower-level OR, where the scrub nurse robed and gloved him as usual. Unless Talmidge was scrubbing upstairs, he knew he’d have at least a five-minute wait.

He nodded to Ricardo, who stood robed and ready at the head of the operating table. Eric had often tried to engage the anesthetist in conversation, always without success. While competent, Ricardo worked almost by rote, and chitchat in the OR seemed to distract him. Eric had never run into him outside the institute.

“So what are we doing today?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. He wandered around the room, idly checking the instrument trays in an attempt to guess what would be required of him.

“I cannot say,” said Ricardo.

Eric smiled sardonically and continued his pacing. He noticed that a length of thin transparent tubing as well as a number of sterile containers of various sizes had been placed in readiness on a side counter. Ready for what? he wondered. No good asking Ricardo or the scrub nurse.

He leaned against the operating table and thought about Vivienne. He’d had love affairs before, but never had he felt so strongly about anyone. No, he loved Vivienne not just for the way she looked and felt, but for the person she was. Once he got her out of here, they’d go home together, and stay together. Surely she felt it too. Once we get this damned procedure out of the way, Talmidge will cut me some slack, and I’ll figure a way to get her out of here tonight.

The creak and bang of a gurney coming through the double doors behind him interrupted his reverie. On the gurney lay a figure completely shrouded in sterile drapes. Connected to the gurney was an IV pole holding several bags of transparent liquids; an IV line snaked down and under the drapes.

“I don’t understand.” Eric turned to Ricardo. “Is he dead?”

“It’s all right,” Ricardo told him. “The doctor will explain.”

The four gurney attendants transferred the draped figure onto the operating table. Then three of them left, rolling the gurney out with them. The fourth, a short, squat, muscular-looking man, took up a position just inside the double doors.

Eric stared at the figure. It must be a clone, he thought. Real people weren’t brought down here to the secret OR. He reached over and fingered the drape over the head of the figure, then felt someone grip his hand hard.

“Drop it,” said the gurney attendant.

Startled, he complied, turning to look at the attendant in surprise. Bascado. He’d heard about Bascado; what was he doing here in the OR?

The man smiled an apologetic smile, but his eyes were hard. “Sorry,” he said, “Doctor T.’s orders. Uh, why don’t we just move back a little?”

The smell of danger was strong. Eric breathed deeply to calm himself. What the hell was under there?

“Good morning, good morning!” Talmidge entered the room, already robed, gloved, and masked. “Is everything ready? Good, good. Let’s get started.”

“Hang on,” Eric protested. “What am I supposed to be doing?”

“Can’t you guess?” asked Talmidge gleefully, his voice only slightly muffled by the sterile mask. “The instruments, the containers . . .?”

Eric sighed in frustration and shrugged.

Above his surgical mask, Talmidge’s eyes gleamed. “We’ve had an urgent call for a living heart. And you will have the honor of removing it.”

Eric blanched. “That’s murder,” he said.

Talmidge ignored him. “The tubing,” he explained, “is for the collection of the blood. The containers are for the other major organs. There is always a need for vital parts.”

Eric stared at him, speechless.

“Don’t worry,” said Talmidge. “It’s only a clone.” He walked to the figure on the table and took hold of the drape. “Or is it?” With a sweep of his arm, he pulled the drape off, dropping it onto the floor. “What do you think, Eric?”

Eric stared in shock at the still form, a bruise blooming on her forehead. Instinctively he stepped forward to touch her. “Vivienne,” he said softly. The figure moaned.

“Ah, she’s coming round again, I think,” said Talmidge brightly. “The drug is strong, but short-lived. She was so anxious to see everything. I didn’t want her to miss this part.”

“Why have you done this?” Eric demanded, his eyes riveted on the awakening Vivienne.

“Ready to open?” asked Talmidge. “Nurse! Scalpel!” He turned solicitously to Eric, “Or would you prefer she were anesthetized first? It’s really a waste of time in this case, but if you insist . . .” He snapped his fingers at Ricardo, who began fiddling with the Cyclopropane controls.

Vivienne stirred and opened her eyes. “Eric!” she said. “I knew you’d come. He’s going to . . .” Then she saw Talmidge over Eric’s shoulder, and the lights and the machines, the IV line in her arm, and she realized where she was. “Please!” she pleaded. “Don’t let him . . . Help me!”

“He can’t help you, darling!” Talmidge told her, pushing past Eric and taking Vivienne’s hand in his. “No one can. But it might make you feel better to know that he’s going to remove your heart. Isn’t that nice?”

Vivienne stared at him, frozen with shock and fear. Talmidge leaned over and kissed her gently on the cheek, then pulled off the single drape which covered her body, stepping back to admire her nakedness.

“Very nice,” he said. “Bascado will be so disappointed.” He glanced briefly at the security man, who was breathing heavily. “No, don’t try to get up,” he added as Vivienne struggled to rise. “There’s no place to run to. Isn’t that right, Eric?”

Eric started forward, but Bascado moved faster, pinioning his arms.

“Why?” he asked Talmidge hoarsely. “What’s she ever done to you?”

“She’s a spy,” said Talmidge calmly, his eyes locked on Vivienne’s. “Just like you are. As I keep telling you, this is a very small town.” He smiled chillingly. “I have your letter. And your notebook.”

All at once he turned on Eric and slapped him hard across the face. “You set me up, boy. You and Harris. You’re just like the others. No, you’re worse! They were greedy, but you - you’re a traitor!”

Then as he stared at Eric, Talmidge’s anger seemed to subside, and his expression grew sad. “I had such hopes,” he said. “We could have shared so much.”

Behind him, Vivienne was sobbing and trying to sit upright; the drugs had sapped the strength from her limbs. The scrub nurse stood holding the scalpel Talmidge had called for, unsure of what to do with it.

“But perhaps we still can, my boy,” Talmidge continued. “Yes, perhaps we can. The girl must die, of course. She is simply too unstable. But you, you have a chance. Perform the procedure. Kill her. If you kill her, maybe I can trust you again. You can stay here, under tight controls of course. But in time, perhaps I can make you see the value, the virtue of what I do here.

“And the pleasure . . . I can show you pleasures you’ve never dreamed of. I can create your ideal woman, even that one . . .” and he jerked a thumb toward Vivienne. “I have her tissue sample. I’ll make you a new one.”

Eric had gone rigid with shock and disgust. Now he forced himself to speak. “Let her go,” he said. “Let her go and I’ll work for you forever.”

“Very dramatic,” said Talmidge. “Very gallant. But somewhat impractical. She’ll talk, of course. And people will listen. And that will be the end of it all.”

“I won’t!” Vivienne begged. “I promise I won’t tell!” She had managed to sit up.

“Bullshit!” Talmidge dismissed her with an angry wave of his hand. “Now, Eric, choose. Oh, and if you choose badly, I have a very interesting experiment you can play a part in. A passive part, it’s true, but an important part nonetheless. You see, I’ve been making some exciting progress with brain transplants . . .”

Eric gazed at him with loathing, his mind and stomach churning. Vivienne was shaking and sobbing uncontrollably.

“Sedate her,” Talmidge ordered, turning to shove her down onto the table as Ricardo took a filled hypodermic from the instrument tray and quickly injected its contents into the intravenous Heplock. Within seconds, she lay still. Slowly Talmidge released his hold.

“Pity,” he said. “It would have been much more exciting the other way. Scalpel!” The scrub nurse slapped the instrument into his outstretched hand. “Well, Eric? You or me?”

The clones clustered around Anna, dabbing ineffectually at her bleeding mouth. The nurse had tried to intervene, but Anna had reacted so violently, she’d disappeared into the medicine room to prepare a tray of “little drinks.” That will calm them down, she thought.

“I tell you again!” Anna exclaimed hoarsely. “It is no honor to give. It is only pain. And now they will pain Vivienne. They will take her heart.”

“But isn’t that the greatest honor?” Jim asked. “The doctor said it was the greatest honor!”

“It’s the greatest murder!” Anna shouted. Murder was one of the strange new ideas Vivienne had taught her. “In murder, you die.”

“Die?”

“You don’t come back,” Anna tried to explain. “You aren’t there anymore. You . . . can’t see, can’t hear. You stop living.”

“They will do that to Vivienne?” Charles asked, horrified.

“We must stop them,” Anna told him decisively. How will we do it? she wondered. Never mind, I will think of a way. I have not drunk the “little drink.”

The nurse emerged from the medicine room with a tray of small paper cups. “Little drinks!” she announced brightly. Several of the clones moved toward the tray, but Anna leapt in front of them and punched the tray out of the nurse’s hands. The cups flew into the air, their contents falling harmlessly onto the floor.

“No!” she shouted. “The ‘little drink’ is why you can’t understand me. You must never drink it again.” The nurse stared at her in fear. Anna smiled dangerously. “Come here,” she said.

The nurse backed toward the medicine-room door, but Anna moved fast, faster than the nurse had anticipated, and grabbed her arms. “We must tell the other clusters,” she told the clones. “First we must tie her hands so she can’t stop us.”

The woman tried to pull away, but Anna was fit and muscular, and the nurse was flabby and unprepared. Anna hit her, hard, and the nurse slumped down onto the floor. The clones gasped at this new violence.

“I am doing this for Vivienne,” she explained kindly. Poor things, they couldn’t understand. They had never felt her anger or her love. “For Vivienne, and for you.”

She motioned them into a circle around her. “I am the doctor now,” she said. “I will tell you what to do. But first, I want to tell you about the world. It will be hard for you to understand. It was hard for me. It will make you angry. Let it make you angry. Your anger will help you fight.”

“Fighting is wrong,” said one of them. Several others nodded.

“Murder is wrong,” Anna told them, “We must fight to stop them from murdering Vivienne. Then we will stop them from murdering others. No, she is not the first.” She smiled at the little group encouragingly. “This is important work. Everyone must help. When I have told you what to do, I will send some of you to tell the other clusters. We are the best, so we will be the leaders. But today all clusters must work together.

“Now, sit down and listen to me. Try to understand.”