William Tenn: The Sickness

“You mean you’re a thousand times as intelligent as before?”

Smathers frowned. “This is very difficult. Yes, roughly a thousand times as intelligent, if you must put it that way. Actually, there’s a thousandfold increase in mental powers. Intelligence is merely one of those powers. There are many others such as telepathy and telekinesis which previously existed in such minuscule state as to be barely observable. I am in constant comminication with Belov, for example, wherever he is. Belov is in almost complete control of his physical environment and its effect on his body. The movable objects which alarmed you so were the results of the first clumsy experiments we made with our new minds. There is still a good deal we have to learn and get used to.”

“But what about—” O’Brien searched through his erupting brain and at last found a coherent thought. “But you were so sick!”

“The symbiosis was not established without difficulty,” Smathers admitted. “And we are not identical with the Martians physiologically. However, it’s all over now. We will return to Earth, spread Belov’s Disease—if you want to keep calling it that—and begin our exploration of space and time. Eventually, we’d like to get in touch with the Martians in the—the place where they have gone.”

“And we’ll have bigger wars than we ever dreamed of!”

The thing that had once been Tom Smathers, second assistant engineer, shook its head. “There will be no more wars. Among the mental powers enlarged a thousand times is one that has to do with what you might call moral concepts. Those of us on the ship could and would stop any presently threatening war; but when the population of the world has made neural connection with Belov’s bacillus all danger will be past. No, there will be no more wars.”

A silence. O’Brien tried to pull himself together. “Well,” he said. “We really found something on Mars, didn’t we? And if we’re going to start back for Earth, I might as well prepare a course based on present planetary positions.”

Again that look in Smathers’ eyes, stronger than ever. “That won’t be necessary, O’Brien. We won’t go back in the same manner as we came. Our way will be—well, faster.”

“Good enough,” O’Brien said shakily and got to his feet. “And while you’re working out the details, I’ll climb into a spacesuit and hustle down to that Martian city. I want to get me a good strong dose of Belov’s Disease.”

The thing that had been Tom Smathers grunted. O’Brien stopped. Suddenly he understood the meaning of that frightening look he had had first from Belov and now from Smatters.

It was a look of enormous pity.

“That’s right,” said Smathers with infinite gentleness. “You can’t ever get Belov’s Disease. You are naturally immune.”