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s； or Targums； of Hebrew scripture to the uneducated masses。 It was the language the clones murmured in their cells。
During his field research in northern Syria； Nathan Lee had learned of a small munity ofSuriani； or Syrian Orthodox Christians； who had been expelled from Turkey in the late 1970s and ended up in a remote village above Aleppo。 He had made the journey a few times just to listen to them speaking an extinct tongue。 Now； to his surprise； Los Alamos contained a scientist who had been born in that very village。
His name was Ismail Abouma Symeon。 He spoke with a heavy Scottish accent； the product of his university training in Edinburgh。 His experience with mammal cloning had brought him to the Hill。 〃Call me Ishmael；〃 he solemnly declared on their first meeting。
Nathan Lee went along with it。 〃Ishmael；〃 he repeated with the same grave dignity。
Immediately a smile cracked the man's black beard。 〃Kidding；〃 he said。 〃You Yanks。 Izzy will do。〃
Izzy was a find in more ways than one。 Besides his Aramaic and good humor； he was a natural。 More than any of the Hebrew speakers； who leaned towards the urban and intellectual； Izzy had the soil and times in him。 Family lore connected him to Simeon Stylites the Elder； a hermit who'd gotten tired of being pestered by the masses and spent the last thirty years of his life on top of a pillar。
〃Old Simeon；〃 Izzy called him。 〃He kicked off a whole movement。 It spread across Europe； monks building higher and higher pillars。 Reminds me of that Everest mania back in the nineties； all those hard men acting like they wanted no damn thing to do with the masses； but perching themselves in public view where you couldn't miss them。 Same thing； the stylites。 They'd die up there from hunger； exposure； lightning。 When they finally came tumbling down； pilgrims would fight for pieces of their bodies。 Martyrs。 Always some fool ready to believe。〃
Nathan Lee told him about his plan to infiltrate the clones and mingle with them。 〃I'm not sure how they'll behave；〃 he warned。 〃We'll have to disguise ourselves。 It could be dangerous。〃
〃I'm good for it；〃 said Izzy。 〃Gone half blind from the microscope。 Be nice； some sun。 Can't wait to meet the lads。 Let's see where they lead。〃
AT NOON OF THE DAYof first contact； August 20； the clones emerged into the courtyard one by one。 Each wore the same rubber shower sandals and white hospital bathrobes without the sashes。 Nathan Lee had begged the clothing from the missary； all of a kind； none better or worse than the others。 It was simple for now； something to cover their nakedness； nothing with zippers or buttons。
Izzy was near the front of the column of men； Nathan Lee next to last。 There were thirty…eight of them； Miranda had picked up a few more。 They surfaced into direct sunlight。 Blinded； they halted in a knot just outside the door and held their hands to their eyes。
The air smelled of pines and sagebrush。 One of the men moaned； a long stream of lunatic rapture。 When he stopped to take a breath； his moans went on echoing off the polished walls。 Otherwise they stood silent。
It was strange to be standing among them。 For over a month now； Nathan Lee had been observing them over a black and white TV monitor。 He knew some of their names； and how long they had been alive this second life。 He had some idea of the experiments they had been used for； and how and where they had most likely died two eons ago。 He could have shown each one of them the bits of bone and mummified flesh from which they'd been born。 For all he knew； one night； years ago； he had even helped tear some of these very men from the dirt of Golgotha while Ochs shined a flashlight down on him。 Now they pressed against his shoulders。 He could feel the heat of their living bodies。
He waited near the back of the bunched men for whatever came next。 He looked across their little sea of heads； and their hair was black and russet and sandy； thick； thinning； curly； and straight。 They didn't smell like men。 Every day for months the ceiling nozzles had sprayed them with disinfectant； and it coated their pores。 The smell reminded him of anatomy lab。
He tried to see through their eyes。 The hard blacktop would seem to them mysterious with its fading white stripes。 The walls towered。 Boxlike cameras swiveled on metal joints high above their reach。 A fire awaited them by the big evergreen。 At least that much would be familiar； he hoped。 After a few minutes； his plan worked。 The crackle of flames and the sweet white pi？on smoke drew them over。
First one； then another let loose of the doorway。 They staggered and shuffled； even the barrel…chested men with jaws like horseshoes。 Their bodies were feeble。 Nathan Lee copied their slow； awkward gait。 Some of the men's surgery scars had healed to the bone； and they crossed the ground bent or hitching with pain。 It was less than a hundred feet to the fire； but they acted like it was a mile。 One man fell。 No one reached down to help him。 Nathan Lee noticed that。 They did not connect to the tribe of their rebirth yet。 Each took care of himself。
In terms of pure ethnography； the anthropologist was supposed to observe； not shape； especially at the outset。 Copying the others； Nathan Lee walked past the struggling invalid。 The man lay on the warm black…top； groaning。 When Nathan Lee looked back； he was trying to crawl to join the group。 But the clones' flesh was soft from captivity。 The skin on the man's bare knees ripped like tissue。 Blood smeared the asphalt。
The clones gathered near the fire。 Those who bothered to notice their fallen brother merely watched。 Their skin might be soft； but their eyes were hard。 Nathan Lee understood； or thought he did。 They were repelled by the man's weakness because it exposed their own weakness。 Their fraility was strange to them； and so they shut out this frail stranger。 In the space of ten feet； the man's white robe had bee filthy with oil and dirt。 He tired quickly。 After another minute； he gave up and simply lay in the middle of the parking lot。
Nathan Lee glanced around to see who was still watching； and was startled to find one of the clones watching him。 It was the fugitive； his scarred face a patchwork of expressions。 One eyelid； sewn back in place too tightly； suggested fury。 The razor wire had caught him across the mouth； and one side drooped； while the other side curved in a goofy smile。 Nathan Lee nodded at him； and the fugitive's plastic eyelids blinked in what could as easily have been contempt as a greeting。
The clones gathered around the crackle and spit of the flames。 No one spoke。 On the far side of the fire； Izzy shot a confused glance at Nathan Lee。 Had they misjudged？ Were the clones more damaged than they realized？ Over half the men had never uttered a sound in their cells。 Nathan Lee had imagined traveling with them through their once…upon…a…time landscapes。 But maybe he was wrong。 The years of isolation and medical torture might have broken their minds。 Or they may never have had real minds。 The skeptics could be right。 The act of cloning might have created only the shapes of men。 Their murmured words could have been just so many neural twitches； a jumble of ancient syl