Gary Brandner - The Brain Eaters

“Are you talking to me about conscience?”

Kitzmiller subsided. “It is somewhat late for that, isn’t it. Nevertheless, it becomes more difficult every day for me to sustain the lie.”

“You don’t have to talk to anybody.”

“I know. Young Corey Macklin does all the talking for me. Nevertheless, the reporters are here. I see them outside the fence. I read in their eyes that they do not believe all that we are telling them.”

“It’s not important whether they believe or not. You know how vital it is that no rumors get started.”

“By rumors do you mean the true story of the brain eaters? Who the real father is?” Kitzmiller’s mouth twisted in a wry smile.

“It is vital,” the other man repeated.

“So you say.” He let several seconds go by, then sighed. “Very well. I will say nothing … for now.” He pushed himself up out of the chair. “I must get back to the laboratories.”

The other man stayed in his chair, frowning, and watched him go.

During the drive from Milwaukee back to the Biotron plant, Corey came to a decision. He saw the absurdity of charting a new direction for his future at a time when he had no assurance there would be a future. All the same, it was a decision, and he felt better having made it.

He flashed his identification at the gate and was waved through by the armed security man. Only half a dozen cars were parked now in the executives’ lot. Corey wondered grimly how many of the names still painted on the unused spaces belonged to dead men.

He entered the building and walked into the office used by Lou Zachry. The government man was talking on the telephone. He held up a hand signaling Corey to wait while he concluded the conversation.

“You’re sure of your facts?” Zachry said into the mouthpiece. Then, after a pause, he asked, “And what makes you think this Karloff is our man? … Description fits, eh? … And Raslov knows? … I see. I guess all we can do is try to head him off at this end.”

Zachry hung up the phone wearily and exhaled between clenched teeth.

“Lou,” Corey began, “I want to talk to you.”

“Sit down. How was Milwaukee?”

Corey remained standing. “Milwaukee was depressing. Lou, I want out.”

“Yeah, don’t we all. The press conference was a little sticky this afternoon without you here. I tried to work up a handout for the pool people, but I don’t have your knack. Better try to come up with a fresh angle for them next time.”

“Lou, hear me. I want out of the job. Now.”

Zachry looked at him. The square, all-American face sagged with weariness. “You can’t mean that. You’re upset about something.”

“I’m upset, all right, but I mean it like I never meant anything else. I quit. I’m through. I don’t want to do this chicken-shit job anymore.”

“Do you know what kind of a bind that leaves me in, Corey?”

“I’m sorry, but — ”

“It’s not like I can go out and hire somebody else. We all signed on here for the duration — however long or short a time that may be.”

“I don’t remember signing anything,” Corey said.

“A figure of speech.”

“I don’t feel bound by a figure of speech.”

Zachry pinched his eyes shut and massaged them with thumb and middle finger. “No, you’re right. There’s no contract. I’ve no right to keep you if you don’t want to stay.”

“Lou, don’t do a Knute Rockne number on me. The important work here is being done in the laboratories. That will get done, or it won’t, regardless of whether I’m here to hand-hold a bunch of reporters. I don’t know how much time I’ve got left, but I don’t want to spend it making up phony press releases.”

Zachry gave him a shrewd look. “What happened in Milwaukee? Did you decide to take one of the book contracts?”

“Hell, no. I don’t give a damn about writing the brain-eaters story anymore. Anyway, in a little while there might be nobody left to read it.”

“What is it, then?” Zachry asked. “I know you’re frustrated with your role here, but — ”

“It’s more than that, Lou. I’m not sure what happened to me. Maybe I got religion.”

Zachry leaned back in the chair. “Okay. Whatever it is you feel you’ve got to do, I wish you luck. You were a big help to me here. I’ll make some arrangements, but it won’t be easy. Especially now.” He inclined his head toward the telephone. “Do you know what that call was?”

Corey shook his head.

“Those Russians who came through here last month — the so-called agricultural delegation — it seems they lost one of them in San Francisco.”

“What do you mean lost?”

“The FBI botched a routine surveillance. Thought they were supposed to detain the people. Everything got confused, and by the time it was straightened out, one of them, Anton Kuryakin, was missing.”

“What of it?”

“Kuryakin is probably the Soviet Union’s top man in biochemistry. They’ve traced him to a flight out of San Francisco for Chicago. To me that means he’s coming here.”

“Isn’t that kind of a jump in logic?”

“Not really. The man is an Iron Curtain version of Kitzmiller. He tried to talk to Kitzmiller while they were here, but you know our Dr. K and his Commiephobia.”

“It sounds like you’ve got a touch of that yourself.”

“Maybe. But I’m as sure as I sit here that Kuryakin is on his way. Worse, Viktor Raslov and the two goons aren’t far behind. Just one more thing for me to worry about” — he paused for a beat — “in addition to writing handouts to keep the media pool off my back.” He looked up at Corey through knitted brows. “But none of this is your worry anymore, is it.”

“I’ll write the goddam handouts,” Corey said.

“You’re staying?”

“Gimme the ball, coach.”

Zachry came around the desk and wrung Corey’s hand. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.” He glanced at his watch. “And just in time. I promised the pool an extra briefing this evening when you got back from Milwaukee. Told them you were checking out some important new leads.”

“You son of a bitch,” Corey said.

“It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.” He gave Corey the old all-American grin.

Corey found Dr. Kitzmiller in the laboratory, huddling with his associates. Dena cocked a questioning eyebrow at him. He gave her a tell-you-later look and managed to separate Kitzmiller from the others momentarily.

“I have a briefing scheduled with the reporters in a little while,” he said, “and I need some help from you.”

“I don’t care what you tell those dummkopfs , Mr. Macklin. Just keep them out of my hair.”

“Dr. Kitzmiller, I can’t go on feeding them the same baloney. These people are not stupid. If they seem intrusive, that’s their job. This is a terrible time for our country, but the people still have a right to know what’s going on. And we have a duty to tell them something.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I want to tell them about the blood test to detect presence of the parasite.”

“I have already explained to you that we have only preliminary data. Any announcement would be premature.”

“The old rules don’t apply anymore, doctor,” Corey said heatedly. “What might have been premature last year is damn near too late now. The people out there are waiting to hear what we’re doing to try to save them. I want to tell them.”

Kitzmiller took a step back as though to have a better look at Corey. “You sound different, young man.”

“Maybe I’m thinking different.”

“Very well. If you feel it is so important, tell the people about the blood test. Make it clear, however, that this is not a cure, nor will it necessarily lead to a cure.”