Clifford Simak - Grotto of the Dancing Deer - And Other Stories

“Radium City wants to talk to the health officer,” announced Angus. “I guess that’s you.”

Doc pulled his feet off the desk and slowly rose. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the marshal’s dripping raincoat.

“Still raining,” he remarked.

“Hell, it always rains on Venus,” said Angus.

Doc stretched his arms over his head and yawned.

“Better hurry along, Doc,” urged Angus. “Maybe some of the big doctors over at Radium City want to call you into consultation.”

Doc snorted. Once he might have been insulted by so thinly veiled sarcasm. But Doc now was past the possibility of being insulted. Ten years on Venus, a hand-to-mouth existence and rotten liquor had taken their toll.

Doc puffed into his raincoat and followed Angus down the rickety stairs. Rain beat at them as they stepped from the building and sloshed up the red mud slough that was the main street of New Chicago.

At the radio station on the edge of the landing field, the town’s only contact with the outside world, they were greeted by Angus’ son, Sandy.

“I’ll get Radium City for you,” said Sandy. “It sounded as if it might be important.”

“Nothing important ever happens in New Chicago,” Doc grumbled. “Nothing since old Jake Hansler died. And they blamed that on me.”

Sandy was speaking into the transmitter. “New Chicago calling Radium City. Answer please. New Chicago calling Radium City. Answer please.”

Out of the amplifier came the voice of the Radium City operator. “Radium City answering New Chicago. Have you located Dr. Trowbridge?”

“Just a second,” said Sandy.

He switched off the amplifier and handed Doc a set of headphones. Doc clamped them over his ears and lowered his rolypoly body into the operator’s chair. He hiccoughed slightly and spoke into the transmitter.

“This is Dr. Trowbridge,” he said.

“Dr. Trowbridge,” said the voice in Radium City, “my name is Tony Paulson. I am a reporter for the Inter-World Press Service. I’m just checking up on this new disease—the Hunger Disease. Have you any cases in New Chicago?”

“Hunger Disease,” snapped Doc. “What are you talking about? I never heard of such a disease.”

“This is something different,” said the voice. “A new disease. It has broken out all over Venus. Quite a few cases on Earth, too. Patient can’t seem to get enough to eat. That’s why we call it the Hunger Disease.”

“Never heard of it,” declared Doc.

“Are there any other doctors in New Chicago?” asked the reporter.

“No,” said Doc. “I’m the only one and they could get along without me. Practically starving me to death. Never saw a healthier place in all my life.”

“You’re sure there’s nobody sick in New Chicago,” persisted the newspaperman.

“Sure I’m sure,” protested Doc. “Last time anybody was sick here was when Steve Donagan’s kid, Susan, had the measles. And that was three months ago.”

“O.K.,” said the voice. “Thank you, doctor. Any other news out in New Chicago?”

“Not a damn thing ever happens here,” Doc declared.

“O.K.—good-by then, and thanks again.”

“Good-by,” said Doc, slipping the headphones from his ears.

He heaved himself to his feet.

“That’s what comes of being buried in a mud-hole like this,” he announced to Angus and Sandy. “Here I am, not knowing a thing about this new disease. Why, once I was regarded as an authority on diagnosis. That was before I came to New Chicago. Fellow in Radium City says there is a new disease breaking out there. Acute hunger is one symptom. He didn’t tell me anything more about it. Never heard anything like that before.”

He shook his head dolefully and headed for the door.

“Thanks for calling me,” he said and plunged out into the rain.

The marshal and his son saw him waddle rapidly down the street, heading for the Venus Flower saloon.

“He’ll tell the boys about this new disease,” said Angus, “and they’ll buy him drinks. Before night he’ll be a disgrace to humanity.”

Arthur Hart, editor of the Evening Rocket , tapped his finger against a paragraph in a news story appearing on the front page of the early afternoon edition.

“Something funny here,” he told Bob Jackson.

He shook his head. “Mighty funny,” he mused.

Bob Jackson said nothing. He scented trouble in the air. Whenever the chief took to shaking his head and muttering to himself it meant trouble for someone. Bob had the feeling he was the victim this time.

“Listen to this,” commanded Hart.

He read the paragraph: “The only community on Venus reporting no cases of the Hunger Disease is New Chicago. Dr. Anderson Trowbridge, health officer, told the Inter-World Press Service today there was no sickness of any sort in that city.”

“Healthy place,” said Bob, wondering if he was saying the right thing.

“Too damn healthy,” snapped Hart. “That’s what makes it funny. With this Hunger Disease rampant over the whole face of the planet, why does New Chicago escape? People dying like flies everywhere else and the folks in New Chicago not bothered a bit.”

Hart fixed the reporter with a steely glare.

“That’s where you come in,” he announced.

“Listen,” Bob bristled, “if you think you’re going to pack me off to some God-forsaken trading post on Venus to find out why nobody ever gets sick there, you better start looking for someone to take my place. I was on Venus once and I don’t like it. It gives me the creeps. Rains all the time. Never see the sun. Sticky-hot. Why, the rain is even lukewarm. And bugs—man, there’s millions of them. All shapes and all sizes. I hate the damn things.”

Hart laid down the paper, carefully smoothed it out on his desk.

“Now, Bob,” he said softly, “I’m asking you to do this because you are the one man I can depend on. If there’s anything to be found in New Chicago, you are the man to find it. And I think there is something to find. Something mighty important.

“Right now the Earth is faced by one of the gravest threats it has known in years. The Hunger Disease. You know what it is. Speeds up metabolism. Speeds it up to a point that a man must eat almost continuously to provide the body with fuel to keep going. And all the time the victim ages visibly. His skin wrinkles, his hair turns gray, his teeth fall out. In only a few days he lives the equivalent of years, and in a week or ten days he dies of what amounts to old age.”

Hart’s eyes narrowed and his voice was sharper now.

“Our medical authorities haven’t a single clue. They haven’t been able to isolate the germ or bacteria or whatever it is that causes the disease. They know it is contagious and that just about sums up their knowledge. They don’t know what causes it. They don’t know how to prevent it or cure it. So far, every single person who has contracted the disease has died—or is going to die.”

Hart fixed Jackson with a frigid stare.

“I am offering you a chance,” he said, “to do a great service to humanity. There must be some reason New Chicago has not been hit by the disease. If you could find this reason—Don’t you see, Bob, it’s a chance to save the Earth!”

“It’s a chance for the Evening Rocket to pull down a billion bucks of gilt-edge promotion,” snarled Bob. “Big headlines. Rocket Reporter Finds Cure for Hunger Disease.”

Hart sighed.

“There’s only one thing that appeals to your sordid soul,” he said. “There isn’t a fleck of human kindness in you. You have a heart of zero steel. How much does the Rocket have to pay you to get you to go out to Venus?”

Bob pondered.

“I hate that place, Hart,” he said. “I don’t like it at all. There’s too many bugs there. Too damn many bugs. Let’s say a bonus of—well—of about five thousand.”