Гарри Гаррисон: The Jupiter Plague

A shorter and substantially different version of the work was published as The Plague From Space, © 1965.

First Tor printing: July 1982 Second printing: March 1987

A TOR Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. 49 West 24 Street New York, N.Y. 10010

Cover art by Tom Kidd

ISBN: 0-812-53975-3 CAN. ED.: 0-812-53976-1

Printed in the United States of America

Dr. Sam Bertolli hunched forward over the tiny computer chessboard, frowning in such concentration that his thick, black eyebrows met and formed a single ridge over his eyes. He reached out slowly and advanced his king’s pawn one square.

“ That is correct ,” the computer said in a tiny voice, and he relaxed. He had made the same move that Fischer had played in 1987 in Berlin. Then the computer buzzed and a dotted line of lights stretched across the board from the opposing bishop. Sam slid the piece along the diagonal to the illuminated square and the lights went out. The computer was playing Fischer’s opponent in that historical game, Smyslov, and the move was an unexpected and subtle one. Sam frowned again and bent over the board.

On the other side of the stainless-steel table

Killer turned the page of a magazine: it rustled loudly in the intense silence of the Emergency Room. Outside of the hospital the city rumbled and hummed to itself, surrounding them yet keeping its distance — but always ready to break in. There were twelve million people in Greater New York and at any moment the door could open and one or more of them would be carried in, white with shock or blue with cyanosis. Here on this table — on which they leaned so casually — blood-soaked clothing had been cut away, while the now silent room had echoed with the screams of the living, the moans of the dying.

Sam moved out his queen’s knight to halt the developing attack. The screen flashed red — this was not the move that Fischer had played — and at the same instant the gong on the wall burst into clanging life.

Killer was up and out of the door almost before his magazine hit the floor. Sam took the time to slide the chessboard into a drawer so that it wouldn’t get stepped on; he knew from experience that he had a second or two before the call slip could be printed. He was right; just as he reached the call-board, the end of the card emerged from a slot in the panel, and as he pulled it free with his right hand he hit the accepted button with his left thumb, then hurried outside. The cab door of the ambulance was standing open and Killer had the turbine roaring. Sam jumped in and grabbed the safety handle to brace himself for takeoff: Killer liked to hurl the heavy machine into action with a bank-robber start. The ambulance was shuddering as the turbine revved and only the brakes were holding it back. At the same instant Sam hit the si-at Killer released the brake and stood on the throttle — the ambulance leaped forward and the sudden acceleration slammed the door shut. They hurtled down the ramp toward the street entrance.

“Where’s this one, Doc?”

Sam squinted at the coded letters. “At the corner of Fifteenth Street and Seventh Avenue. A 7-11, an accident of some kind with only one person involved. Do you think you can keep this hurtling juggernaut going straight for about one hundred feet while I get out the surgical kit?”

“We got three blocks yet before I gotta turn,” Killer said imperturbably. “The way I figure it that gives you at least seven full seconds before you gotta grab onto something.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, swinging through the narrow walkway into the back and unclipping the gray steel box from the wall. He sat down again and braced it between his legs on the floor, watching the buildings and motionless cars whip by. Their emergency call was being broadcast to traffic control, which flashed a warning light on the panel of every car within a four-block radius of the ambulance, ordering them to the curb and bringing all traffic to a standstill. The signal lights turned green in their favor and the warble of their siren kept the street clear of pedestrians. They hurtled through a landscape of frozen vehicles and staring faces where all the eyes turned to follow the rushing white form of the ambulance.

Dr. Sam Bertolli sat stolidly, swaying with the swift motion, his square-jawed face relaxed and quiet. This was Killer’s part of the job, getting him to the scene of the emergency, and he considered it foolish to waste his time in speculation as to what he would find there. He would know soon enough. Sam was a big man, with big hands that had black hair curled over the knuckles, intensely dark hair. No matter how often he shaved his cheeks had a blue tone and this, along with the permanent groove that was beginning to form between his eyebrows, gave him more of the look of a policeman or a prizefighter. Yet he was a doctor, and a fine one, in the top five of his graduating class the year before. Within a few weeks, by the end of June, his internship would be finished and he would begin a residency. He had his life under control.

Killer Dominguez appeared to be the direct opposite. A slight man with an oversize head, he was as wiry and nervous as a bantam rooster on an eagle farm. His skinny hands were clamped tightly to the steering wheel, his muscles knotted and tense, while his jaw worked nervously on a wad of gum. A thick pillow propped him up into driving position and his tiny feet seemed to be barely able to reach the pedals — yet he was the best driver on the staff and had started at the hospital only after sixteen years’ experience behind the wheel of a hack. The streets of the city were his world, ha only felt comfortable when he was hurtling a few tons of steel along them, and as an eighth-generation New Yorker he was attuned perfectly to this life, could imagine no other.

The tires squealed as they turned into Seventh Avenue and headed for the crowd of people on one corner: a blue-coated policeman waved them to the curb.

“An accident, Doctor,” he told Sam as he climbed down with the heavy steel box, “He was operating a street elevator, one of those old ones, and somehow got his leg over the edge. Almost tore it off before the elevator stopped. I was just around the corner here, I heard him scream.”

Sam shot a quick glance at the policeman as the crowd parted before them. He was young — and a little nervous — but he was holding up. Then the elevator was before them and Sam gave the scene a slow, thorough look before he snapped open the emergency kit.

The elevator had halted a foot below ground level and on its floor lay a heavy, gray-haired man about sixty years old with his left leg buckled underneath him in a pool of dark blood. His right leg was pinched between the metal edge of the elevator and the bottom of the ground level opening. The man’s eyes were closed and his skin was waxy white.

“Who knows how to work this elevator?” Sam asked the crowd of staring faces. They were moved aside by a teen-age boy who pushed rapidly through from the back.

“Me, Doc, I can work it, nothing to it. Just press I lie red button for down and the black one for up.”

“Do you just know how it works — or have actually worked it?” Sam asked as he pushed his tell-tale against the inside of the patient’s wrist.

“I’ve worked it, lots of times!” the boy said with injured innocence. “Brought boxes down for—”

“That’s fine. Take control and when I tell you to, lower the elevator a foot. When I say up bring it up to ground level.”

The dials of the telltale registered instantly. Body temperature below normal, blood pressure and pulse too low and too slow for a man of this age. Shock and probable loss of a good deal of blood; there was certainly enough of it on the elevator floor. Sam saw that the right pants leg had been cut open and he spread the flaps of cloth wide. The man’s leg had been almost completely severed just above the knee and there was a black leather belt around the stump cutting deep into the white flesh. Sam looked up into the worried eyes of the policeman.