Andre Norton - The Science Fiction anthology

Thirty minutes later they were ordering in a small cantina down the street from the hospital.

Julio Camba, Federation Investigator, was a slender, dark man with sharp, glinting eyes. He spoke with a happy theatrical flourish.

“Order what you choose, Senor. We’re on my expense account. The resources of the Federated States of all The Americas stand behind your menu.”

Alcala smiled. “I wouldn’t want to add to the national debt.”

“Not at all, Senor. The Federated States are only too happy thus to express a fraction of their gratitude by adding a touch of luxury to the otherwise barren and self-sacrificing life of a scientist.”

“You shame me,” Alcala said dryly. It was true that he needed every spare penny for the health of Nita and the child, and for the laboratory. A penny saved from being spent on nourishment was a penny earned. He picked up the menu again and ordered steak.

The investigator lit a cigar, asking casually: “Do you know John Osborne Drake?”

Alcala searched his memory. “No. I’m sorry....” Then he felt for the first time how closely he was being watched, and knew how carefully his reaction and the tone of his voice had been analyzed. The interview was dangerous. For some reason, he was suspected of something.

Camba finished lighting the cigar and dropped the match into an ash-tray. “Perhaps you know John Delgados?” He leaned back into the shadowy corner of the booth.

Johnny! Out of all the people in the world, how could the government be interested in him? Alcala tried to sound casual. “An associate of mine. A friend.”

“I would like to contact the gentleman.” The request was completely unforceful, undemanding. “I called, but he was not at home. Could you tell me where he might be?”

“I’m sorry, Senor Camba, but I cannot say. He could be on a business trip.” Alcala was feeling increasingly nervous. Actually, Johnny was working at his laboratory.

“What do you know of his activities?” Camba asked.

“A biochemist.” Alcala tried to see past the meditative mask of the thin dark face. “He makes small job-lots of chemical compounds. Special bug spray for sale to experimental plantations, hormone spray for fruits, that sort of thing. Sometimes, when he collects some money ahead, he does research.”

Camba waited, and his silence became a question. Alcala spoke reluctantly, anger rising in him. “Oh, it’s genuine research. He has some patents and publications to his credit. You can confirm that if you choose.” He was unable to keep the hostility out of his voice.

A waiter came and placed steaming platters of food on the table. Camba waited until he was gone. “You know him well, I presume. Is he sane?”

The question was another shock. Alcala thought carefully, for any man might be insane in secret. “Yes, so far as I know.” He turned his attention to the steak, but first took three very large capsules from a bottle in his pocket.

“I would not expect that a doctor would need to take pills,” Camba remarked with friendly mockery.

“I don’t need them,” Alcala explained. “Mixed silicones. I’m guinea pigging.”

“Can’t such things be left to the guinea pigs?” Camba asked, watching with revulsion as Alcala uncapped the second bottle and sprinkled a layer of gray powder over his steak.

“Guinea pigs have no assimilation of silicones; only man has that.”

“Yes, of course. I should have remembered from your famous papers, The Need Of Trace Silicon In Human Diet and Silicon Deficiency Diseases .”

Obviously Camba had done considerable investigating of Alcala before approaching him. He had even given the titles of the research papers correctly. Alcala’s wariness increased.

“What is the purpose of the experiment this time?” asked the small dark Federation agent genially.

“To determine the safe limits of silicon consumption and if there are any dangers in an overdose.”

“How do you determine that? By dropping dead?”

He could be right. Perhaps the test should be stopped. Every day, with growing uneasiness, Alcala took his dose of silicon compound, and every day, the chemical seemed to be absorbed completely—not released or excreted—in a way that was unpleasantly reminiscent of the way arsenic accumulated without evident damage, then killed abruptly without warning.

Already, this evening, he had noticed that there was something faulty about his coordination and weight and surface sense. The restaurant door had swung back with a curious lightness, and the hollow metal handle had had a curious softness under his fingers. Something merely going wrong with the sensitivity of his fingers—?

He tapped his fingertips on the heavy indestructible silicone plastic table top. There was a feeling of heaviness in his hands, and a feeling of faint rubbery give in the table.

Tapping his fingers gently, his heavy fingers ... the answer was dreamily fantastic. I’m turning into silicon plastic myself , he thought. But how, why? He had not bothered to be curious before, but the question had always been—what were supposedly insoluble silicons doing assimilating into the human body at all?

Several moments passed. He smoothed back his hair with his oddly heavy hand before picking up his fork again.

“I’m turning into plastic,” he told Camba.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. A joke.”

Camba was turning into plastic, too. Everyone was. But the effect was accumulating slowly, by generations.

Camba lay down his knife and started in again. “What connections have you had with John Delgados?”

Concentrate on the immediate situation. Alcala and Johnny were obviously in danger of some sort of mistaken arrest and interrogation.

As Alcala focused on the question, one errant whimsical thought suddenly flitted through the back of his mind. In red advertising letters: TRY OUR NEW MODEL RUST-PROOF, WATERPROOF, HEAT & SCALD RESISTANT, STRONG—EXTRA-LONG-WEARING HUMAN BEING!

He laughed inwardly and finally answered: “Friendship. Mutual interest in high ion colloidal suspensions and complex synthesis.” Impatience suddenly mastered him. “Exactly what is it you wish to know, Senor? Perhaps I could inform you if I knew the reasons for your interest.”

Camba chose a piece of salad with great care. “We have reason to believe that he is Syndrome Johnny.”

Alcala waited for the words to clarify. After a moment, it ceased to be childish babble and became increasingly shocking. He remembered the first time he had met John Delgados, the smile, the strong handclasp. “Call me Johnny,” he had said. It had seemed no more than a nickname.

The investigator was watching his expression with bright brown eyes.

Johnny, yes ... but not Syndrome Johnny. He tried to think of some quick refutation. “The whole thing is preposterous, Senor Camba. The myth of Syndrome Plague Johnny started about a century ago.”

“Doctor Alcala”—the small man in the gray suit was tensely sober—”John Delgados is very old, and John Delgados is not his proper name. I have traced his life back and back, through older and older records in Argentina, Panama, South Africa, the United States, China, Canada. Everywhere he has paid his taxes properly, put his fingerprints on file as a good citizen should. And he changed his name every twenty years, applying to the courts for permission with good honest reasons for changing his name. Everywhere he has been a laboratory worker, held patents, sometimes made a good deal of money. He is one hundred and forty years old. His first income tax was paid in 1970, exactly one hundred and twenty years ago.”

“Other men are that old,” said Alcala.

“Other men are old, yes. Those who survived the two successive plagues, were unusually durable.” Camba finished and pushed back his plate. “There is no crime in being long-lived, surely. But he has changed his name five times!”