CV

38

The steward spoke on the phone again, then turned and faced the passengers.

“Mrs. Claiborne?”

“Here,” said the young woman opposite.

The steward came and bent over her. “May I see your ID, please?” He took the cards she handed him, examined them carefully. “Will you please come with me?”

“I’m sorry, what is this for?”

“You are being released, because you have already had the disease. You will be taken to quarantine in another lifeboat, and then when we are sure that the disease carrier is still here, you will be free to go.”

She looked at her husband. “Malcolm, I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

“No, you must go,” he said, pressing her hand. “There’s no point in both of us being cooped up; don’t turn martyr on me again, will you?”

She smiled. “All right, I’ll try not to. See you soon.”

The steward led her to the front of the boat. The door opened and a gray-haired man walked in. At the steward’s nod, Mrs. Claiborne walked out. The door closed.

“Steward, may I ask what is happening?” an old woman demanded.

“Yes, madam. Mrs. Claiborne has been released because she has already had the disease. This gentleman is a volunteer, to replace the gentleman who became ill. Each of us who becomes ill will be replaced in this way, and so you see, we will all be able to leave the lifeboat very shortly.”

Now their strategy was clear, and she admired it for the ingenious way it circumvented their taboo against killing. It was evident, moreover, from the lengths they had gone to, that they were not willing to sacrifice one of their number. Therefore her response must be to show that their strategy could not succeed. When they realized that, they would have to release her along with the rest of the passengers. But what if they did not?

The steward was passing, and she slipped out and across and in, so smoothly that he did not notice until he heard the woman’s body fall to the floor. He knelt and straightened her out, pulled down her skirt. Her pulse was steady and slow. It was interesting, the steward thought, how stupid and ugly people invariably looked when they were unconscious.

Yeager had to get out, and he thought he knew a way to do it. If he fell over, seemed to collapse, and if he didn’t move, not for anything, they would take him out on a litter. Then he could “recover” when he got to the infirmary, and once he was out, there would be no reason to put him back in again. And he would find her sitting in a restaurant, or in a deck chair by the pool, and he would say, smiling, “May I join you?”

He closed his eyes, let his body go limp. He was careful to twist a little as he went down, so that he struck the floor on his shoulder and rolled over onto his back. He lay there, schooling himself to breathe slowly, and listened to the voices around him.

The steward hurried back down the aisle. His curiosity was aroused: there was something odd about the appearance of the young man on the floor—he did not look ill, or even unconscious; he looked like someone pretending to be asleep. In the act of kneeling, he slipped out once more and in again, and when he heard the body fall beside him, he was so startled that he almost opened his eyes.

After a long time he felt himself lifted and placed on a litter. He was being rolled up the aisle; then there was a wait. The door opened. “Two of them this time,” said a voice a little distance away.

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s going faster, anyhow.”

The litter moved again, swung around, halted. He heard another door opening. He concentrated on being limp, not giving in to the temptation to look through his eyelashes. Now they were going into an elevator; the door closed, the elevator was moving. Now he was being wheeled down a long hall. Another door. “Two this time!” said a female voice. “Oh, Dr. McNulty!”

Another presence was bending over him. “Get the tube into that one, will you, Terri?” said the voice. “Something funny about this one—”

And he slipped out through the fuzzy space and in again, and as he bent over the patient he could see that he had been mistaken; the young man was in a typical stupor, eyes halfclosed, breathing almost imperceptibly. He must be cracking up, thought Dr. McNulty.