Гарри Гаррисон - The Jupiter Plague

“You’re a friend in need, Killer,” Sam said, kicking off the scuffs and zipping up the shoes. “You’ve been on duty while I’ve been locked up here — what’s it like outside?”

For the first time since Sam had known him Killer’s face lost its neutral expression of urban sophistication, falling into lines of fatigue and worry.

“It’s rough. Doc — and it’s gonna get rougher. Everyone’s staying in the house with the doors locked but pretty soon they’re gonna start getting low on food and figure the best thing to do is to visit the relatives in the country and then the fun’ll start. The whole thing’s being played down by the papers and TV, but it ain’t too hard to read between the lines. What they print got nothing to do with what is happening. I been out with the wagon and I’ve seen a lot. A riot on the East Side where the manager locked up the Safeway all day. People got angry and pushed until the door broke in. After that they just went nuts. Grabbing everything that they could, filling the shopping carts and just pushing them out the door. The manager tried to stop them and I saw this big guy cut him bad. People just laughed and got out of there with their loot. I never seen anything like it before.”

“That’s panic, Killer, you’ve seen it before.”

“Yeah, but not like this. Not a whole city, millions of people, all in a panic. Went to pick up on a call, but never got near the woman. They killed her, just because they thought she had it and they would catch it from her. People is animals.”

“No, just frightened.”

“I’m frightened — but I’m not stomping anymore.”

“I think we’ll have it under control soon,” Sam said as they went to the elevator, wishing he could put more sincerity into his words. “Once we’ve stopped the birds from spreading Rand’s disease it will die out.”

“There’re a lot of birds in the world, Doc,” Killer said, chewing idly on a toothpick, his accustomed unshakable expression back.

The entrance to auditorium number two was closed and guarded by an unsmiling policeman who refused Sam admittance and kept his hand on his belt near his gun while he talked. When he had been reassured that Sam did have business here he called on his helmet radio and a few minutes later Eddie Perkins, one of the resident surgeons, opened the door. Killer vanished and Eddie ushered Sam into the cloakroom.

“I have to brief you first,” he said, “before you go in there. It’s turning into a real battle.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“You might as well ask.” Eddie smiled crookedly and took out a pack of cigarettes and when Sam refused lit one himself. “I’ve been drafted with Dr. McKay’s team. He’s been officially placed in charge of the medical investigation and treatment for Rand’s disease; everyone remembers what he did with Topholm’s pachyacria. He throws some weight with the public health people, less with the police and military, and none at all with the vote-hungry politicians. He’s trying to convince the governor that he should declare martial law so the UN Army can come in — we’ll need them sooner or later, so it’s better sooner— and at the same time we should destroy every bird within a hundred mile radius of New York.”

“There must be hundreds of state parks and game sanctuaries in that area. I can imagine what the conservationists are going to say!”

“They’ve already said it — and to the governor, who you’ll remember is up for reelection in the fall.”

“What can I do about all this?”

“McKay says you can probably swing the vote the right way; he’s been stalling until you showed up. You make an entrance and everyone will shut up and listen to what you have to say. You’re the hero of the moment, the guy who first saw Rand and who went into quarantine with him, then took a dose of the bugs to prove that Rand-alpha is not communicable between human beings. Once that’s shown to be true the panic about catching the disease will die down along with all the talk about evacuating the city, and it will stop the worry about quarantining the cases we have so far. Then once you establish the noncommunicability of Rand-alpha you have to say in a loud and clear voice that the only way Rand-beta can be stopped is by killing a few million birds. Do you agree?”

“I — yes, of course I do. It sounds like a horrible idea, but it is the only thing to do when we have no cure for the disease. Stop it now before it spreads and we’ll have it stopped forever.”

“That’s the old fighting spirit,” Perkins said as he started for the door. “Convince the ward heelers of that and we can get on with the job. Give me a two-minute start so I can tip off McKay, then bust in. Go right up to the platform, we’ll be waiting for you.”

They were slow minutes. Sam straightened his white jacket in the cloakroom mirror and tried to brush away some of the wrinkles. His throat was dry, just the way it used to be before a combat drop. Politicians! But they had to be convinced at once. Every minute’s delay spread the circle of contamination further. He pushed through the door and went down the aisle of the partially filled hall toward the impressive group of uniforms and business suits seated around the long table on the platform. Heads turned toward him and Dr. McKay broke off his speech and greeted him.

“Now, gentlemen, we can at last have a few facts to deal with, incontrovertible facts and evidence on which we can base a logical decision. This is Dr. Bertolli, whom I think you all know by name.”

A murmur rippled through the hall and Sam tried to ignore the staring eyes as he climbed the four steps to the stage. McKay waved him to his side.

“At the present moment Dr. Bertolli is the world’s clinical authority on Rand’s> disease. He was the one who met Rand when the ship landed and attended his case in quarantine here, as well as the second case, that of Police Officer Miles. In addition he is the man who conducted the experiments that have just proven that we can only catch Rand’s disease from birds, not from one another. Dr. Bertolli, will you tell us, what were the nature of these experiments?”

When McKay said this, Sam realized that the man was a shrewd politician as well as a physician. By not revealing the exact nature of the communicability tests he had set the stage for a dramatic revelation by Sam. Sam normally did not have much use for political doctors, but he realized that at this moment he would have to be one himself. His audience had to be convinced. There was an expectant silence as he turned to face them.

“Laboratory tests have revealed that Rand’s disease appears to have two forms, called alpha and beta for identification. Commander Rand died of Rand-alpha, but it was impossible for him to infect any creature other than members of the class aves , birds, since any and all kinds of birds apparently can catch this disease from man. When the birds become infected the disease becomes Rand-beta, a virulent form that can be passed on to other birds or to human beings. However, when man catches it, it appears as Rand-alpha again— this is what Officer Miles died of. This disease can not be communicated to others.”

“How do you know, Doctor?” McKay interrupted.

“Because I injected myself with the live virus taken from Miles.”

Sam broke off as a concerted gasp ran through the audience; those at the table nearest him inadvertently leaned away. McKay had a cold smile as he put his hand on Sam’s arm.

“There is no need to be alarmed. If Dr. Bertolli were to have contracted the disease he would have the obvious symptoms by now; it has been observed that all of the cases now under treatment developed within one hour of exposure.” He dropped his arm and sat back in his chair, looking directly at Sam, who stood alone, facing the silent audience. “Do you have any more suggestions for the treatment of Rand’s disease, Doctor?”