Гарри Гаррисон - The Jupiter Plague

“Good work,” the general said. “Now let’s open the outer door and see how those gun-happy police react.”

As soon as he was able to stand, the engineer made the connections to the power pack and closed the circuit. The circuit breakers had cooled off and automatically reset themselves: the motor whined and the outer door began to open slowly.

A hail of bullets was the first reaction, but they were well out of the line of fire.

“Shaky trigger fingers,” the general said contemptuously. “I wonder if they have any idea of what they hope to accomplish by this.”

Others must have shared his opinion because the fire broke off suddenly and was replaced by an echoing silence. Almost fifteen minutes passed before someone shouted from outside.

“General Burke, can you hear me?”

“I can hear you all right,” Burke bellowed back, “but I can’t see you. Are those nervous policemen going to shoot me if I enter the air lock?”

“No, sir… we have orders not to.”

If the general was concerned he did not show it. He straightened his beret, flicked some of the dried mud from his coveralls and strode forward to the rim of the air lock, standing straight and unmoving in the glare from the lights that flooded in.

“Now what is it?” he called down. “And turn those lights down — are you trying to blind me?” There were some muffled commands and two of the lights went out.

“We have received orders that you are to be allowed to leave the ship.” The speaker came for-ward, a grizzled police captain.

“I’ll want transportation. A copter.”

“We have one here—”

“Warm it up. And what happened to my sergeant?”

“If you mean the one who was firing at us, he’s dead.”

The general turned around without another word and stamped inside. “Let’s go before they change their minds.” He had the fixed, unhappy look that soldiers get who have seen too many friends die.

“You won’t need me any more,” Yasumura said. “So if you don’t mind I’ll stay here and take a look at the ship’s log and have some chitchat with that overweight passenger.”

“Yes, of course,” the general said. “Thank you for the aid…”

“Wrong way around, General, I’m the one who should be thanking you for getting me back into the ship.”

A service lift truck was backed up to the “Pericles” and its platform raised to the level of the air lock. They stepped out onto it, carrying the wounded lieutenant between them, and the operator swung it around in an arc and dropped it to ground level; a few yards away was a copter with its blades slowly turning. They ignored the grim-faced and heavily armed policemen who stood around watching them. Sam held the capsule tightly in his free hand as they helped Haber into the copter and laid him down gently across the rear row of seats.

“Bellevue Hospital and make it flat out,” Sam said, dropping into the seat next to the police pilot. “Get onto the tower and tell them to clear you right through, to divert all other traffic. We’re going straight to the Bellevue landing pad and set down at maximum. Understood?”

“On the way.”

He hit the throttle open and the copter screamed and clawed its way into the sky.

Sam beat his fist over and over again into the armrest as ahead of them the light-dotted skyline of Manhattan grew closer and closer; but ever so slowly for him. Now, with the rushed and anxious events of the past hours behind him, memory swam to the surface in horrifying detail. Nita, unconscious, ill… dying. Her face swollen and flushed. It had been — how long? — over seven hours since he had last seen her. She would be much, much worse by now. Or she could be dead. Others had died in less time. But she was young and strong. Yes, but was she young and strong enough to stay alive? He had no way of knowing. Could she be dead, tragically dead when salvation might be so close? When he might be bringing the cure with him. His fingers touched, almost carressed the waxy cylinder in his lap. It bent under the slight pressure, the liquid inside flowing back and forth. Could it really be the cure? Memory of the past hours gave him some reassurance. It had to be the cure they sought. What would the Jovian have gained by giving them the wrong substance?

Yet on the other hand — why should it even bother to give them the right one? Both of these questions were meaningless, without intelligent answers, since none of them had the slightest idea of what motivated the alien. The copter bounced on a thermal and Sam looked out at the waters of the East River slipping by below.

The copter buzzed in a tight circle around the towers of Bellevue then locked onto the computer controlled landing beam. It dropped swiftly onto the pad and the blades were still turning when the attendants rushed forward.

“You’ve got a patient in here,” Sam called out as he jumped down from the door, bent over to avoid the blades. “Get him to emergency at once.”

He pushed by them, knocking one man aside who got in his way, scarcely aware that he did it. Nita… Before he reached the entrance he was running, slamming open the door, mashing down the elevator button, pounding his free hand against the wall until the doors opened. General Burke was behind him, hurrying into the elevator after him.

“Easy, son,” the general said. “You’ll get there soon enough.”

Sam ran along the corridor, checking the numbers as he went, then pushing open the door to her room. It was dark inside and he turned on the ceiling lights. There were five beds in the room and the woman in the nearest one moaned and turned her eyes away from the glare. He ran past her to the bed by the window where Nita lay.

Silent and unmoving, her eyes closed. Was she…? It was a relief to feel the burning fever of

Rand’s disease in her limp wrist. He was not too late.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get out of here at once!”

A doctor he had never seen before was pulling at his arm, then went sprawling onto the floor when Sam shook him off. Only then did Sam realize how he must look with his mud-stained overalls and blackened skin.

“I’m sorry, doctor, but I’m Doctor Bertolli. I need a hypodermic—” he broke off as he saw the jars of medicine on the trolley by the door. He hurried over to it and tore the drawer open and pulled out a paper wrapped disposable needle. Then he stood the capsule on end and poured alcohol over its base. He was not aware that the general had followed him into the room and was explaining in a low voice to the outraged doctor.

Sam tore the hypodermic from its package and threw the protective needle cover onto the floor. Pushed the point of the needle against the cylinder. It slid through easily and dipped into the liquid inside. Was this the treatment for Rand’s— or was it poison? How could he know? He inverted the capsule and drew back the plunger on the needle until the barrel was half full of straw-colored liquid. He pulled out the needle and handed the capsule to General Burke, who had appeared at his shoulder.

“Keep that end up,” he said as he gently took Nita’s arm from under the covers and, working with one hand, swabbed alcohol on the inside of her elbow. Her skin was dry, burning hot, lumped here and there with the swollen red nodules. Nita! He forced his mind away from her as a person, she was a patient, his patient. He massaged her vein with his thumb until it expanded, then slid the needle into it. How much? Five cc’s for a start, then more if it was needed.

On the telltale her temperature read one hundred and six degrees and in conjunction with the recordings of her blood pressure and pulse showed that she was dying. Her deep rasping breathing broke off suddenly and her back arched under the covers: she gave a deep chattering moan. He reached out and touched her in panic — what had he done? Had he killed her?