Гарри Гаррисон - The Jupiter Plague

Sam stared into his glass, spinning the amber liquid around and around. “I’m sorry, Cleaver. I wish I could help you, but I can’t. Not this time. You see I agree with Chabel.”

“That the last word, Sam?” Burke stood and put his hat under his arm.

“That’s it, Cleaver.”

“Well you’re wrong, son, and being bullheaded, but I can’t hold it against a man for sticking to his guns. But you think on it and when you change your mind come right to me.” He crushed Sam’s hand in his and turned to the door.

“I’ll think on it, Cleaver — but until there’s some new evidence I’m not going to change my mind.”

The door slammed and Sam grinned wryly and wriggled his numbed fingers. Ten years hadn’t slowed Cleaver down in the slightest. He finished his drink and pulled a clean suit of hospital whites from the drawer. He had a better idea now why Chabel wanted to see him.

Dr. McKay’s secretary had Sam wait before she let him into the office, and when she finally opened the door for him he walked into silence: McKay sitting behind his wide desk and Professor Chabel puffing his pipe silently in the corner. Sam knew they had been talking about him, and he would find out why quickly enough.

“You sent for me, Dr. McKay?”

“Yes, Sam, I — and Professor Chabel — wanted to talk to you. There, pull up a chair and make yourself comfortable.” McKay rattled the papers on his desk and looked unhappy. Sam grinned a bit as he sat down in the chair and McKay’s darting glance caught it, and he was a good enough diagnostician to read the correct meaning into it.

“All right, Sam, no beating around the bush then. We arranged for that buzzard Burke to see you, we thought it would be better that way, get it out in the open. He wanted you to help him, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did.”

There was tension in the room now and, without realizing it, Chabel rocked forward in his chair.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him that I couldn’t help him, and I told him why. As the situation stands now I feel that our decision, Professor Chabel, in sealing up the spaceship was a correct one. I don’t see how we could gain anything by opening it up, and we could lose a great deal.”

“I’m very pleased to hear that, Dr. Bertolli,” Chabel said, leaning back in his chair as he pushed the dottle in his pipe down with his thumb. He tipped in fresh tobacco. “We have enough trouble battling Rand’s disease, but we would be in twice as much difficulty if we had to fight General Burke at the same time. The general is a tenacious man, which makes him a wonder in the field of battle, but he also wishes to have a hand in policy making. He is far too wise to act without aid, and so far he represents only a small group of extremists who wish to enter the ‘Pericles,’ and up until now the news agencies have cooperated with us in seeing that they don’t get their views into print. However, this would all change if they had some popular figure on their side — such as yourself. If that happened we couldn’t keep this intramural battle under the table, and I don’t feel that at the present time we can enjoy the luxury of a policy debate in public. The situation is too desperate for that.”

“Desperate—?” Sam asked, surprised. “I had the feeling that things were getting under control.”

“Temporarily, and only here in the city. But we are running into immense difficulties in both controlling the movement of the population and in bird extermination. There is no safe agent that will kill only birds nor one that is one hundred percent effective. We have had to push our outer circle back already because of breakthroughs of infection. The human element is difficult; we have had armed resistance from poultry farmers when we have attempted to kill off their entire flocks. They find it hard to see a connection between their healthy birds and a human disease eighty miles away. And then we have the factor of human fear. Enough people have seen cases of Rand’s disease to know that it is striking all around them, and it appears to be common knowledge now that it is one hundred percent fatal. People are trying to leave the contaminated zone by stealth, or violence if there is no other way, and we have been forced to retaliate with violence — we have had no choice. This plague must be confined physically until we have developed some form of treatment.” He looked automatically toward Dr. McKay as he said this, as did Sam.

“Has the research turned up anything?” Sam asked in the embarrassed silence that followed.

McKay shook his head no with his hands clasped on the desk before him: because they were trembling, Sam realized suddenly. McKay had a dreadful responsibility.

“We have a number of teams working around the clock, but we have accomplished next to nothing so far. We can describe the development of the disease better now, we know the first symptoms appear within thirty minutes of exposure, and we have developed supportive techniques that affect the advance of the disease, but they only slow it. We have not reversed one case yet. And there are a growing number of cases all the time.

“So you see, we have more than enough problems as things stand. General Burke represents just one more difficulty that we are not equipped to cope with.”

“I would like to ask your help in another way, Sam,” McKay broke in.

“Anything, of course.”

“I could use you on my team. We’re trying everything possible to break through on Rand’s disease, and we need all the help we can get. You’d be an asset, Sam.”

Sam hesitated a moment, trying to frame his words exactly before he spoke. “I don’t envy you your job, Dr. McKay, even with the help you have. You must have pathologists, virologists, internists, epidemiologists, cytologists — all the best people in every field working with you. I, well, would be out of place with them. By chance I was there when Rand left the ship and later I was the best guinea pig handy to try the Rand-alpha virus on. But that’s all. I’m an intern and I hope to be an experienced surgeon some day — but right now I think I’m most valuable in the back of an ambulance. Thank you for asking me, but I think I would just be a — dead weight with your people.”

Chabel puffed on his pipe, saying nothing, and McKay smiled wryly. “Thanks, Sam, for going so easy with an old man. I really would like you on my team, aside from the obvious political fact that I would prefer you there rather than backing General Burke. But I’m not going to force you. God knows there is enough work out there for all of us and more.” His intercom hummed and he switched it on. “Yes, of course,” he said into it. “Send her in.”

They were standing and saying good-by when Nita Mendel entered with a sheaf of papers. She stopped at the door.

“I can wait if you’re busy, Dr. McKay,” she said.

“No, that’s fine, just leave them here. I want to go over these with Professor Chabel.”

They went out of the office together and Sam said, “Coffee — or better yet, some food. I’ve missed some meals.”

“I bet it won’t be as good as the coffee we had in our private suite up there in quarantine.”

They both smiled at the memory, nothing more; there was nothing more they could do, here in this place, at this time. Sam recognized the feelings he had — then turned his back on them. The world now was too upside down to allow him to consider personal desires. They took the elevator to the staff cafeteria.

“It’s good soup,” Nita said, taking small and precise spoonfuls.

“And cheap, too, very important for starving interns. Was there anything new in those reports, Nita, anything not classified, that is?”