The Jupiter Plague

10

They could not talk. There was nothing to say. But Sam could see the terror in Nita’s eyes. And there was nothing that he could do about it. A sick doctor is just one more patient, no different from any other patient, and with no special privileges. Sam could not even arrange for a private or semi-private room in the overcrowded hospital, and instead had to take her to a room into which five beds had been jammed. One bed had just been vacated: no need to ask what had happened to the last patient. He gave Nita the injections himself— and included a heavy sedative — so that she was sleeping even before he left. The door closed silently and automatically behind him and he knew that she was doomed. Just as dead as if she had been shot with a bullet. Just as dead as everyone would be soon.

It seemed futile to go out in the ambulance— but sitting and thinking would be far worse. He carried a gun now, there were fewer troops and none could be spared as ambulance guard. Nor were there any assignments. You worked until you dropped, then found whatever ambulance was leaving that needed an intern. Sam took his bag to the emergency exit and climbed aboard a US Army ambulance that had just discharged its cargo of dead and wounded.

“Do you have a doctor?” he asked the driver, a weary looking first sergeant.

“I don’t have one, doctor, but I could sure use one. Welcome aboard, sir.”

“Sam, just Sam. Where’s your unit, sergeant?”

“Set up camp in Central Park, next to the zoo. The name is Al Carter and I sure wish I was back in Goose Creek, Texas.”

He kicked the ambulance into gear and they rumbled out past the armed guards at the gate. “What’s going to happen, Sam?” he asked. “All we get is latrine rumor and that is not as reliable as it used to be.”

Sam was too weary to lie, too filled with defeat. “Do you want the truth, Al, or a press release?”

The sergeant gave him a grim look before turning his attention back to the road. “The world’s not too nice a place these days. Everything’s going to hell when you see the topkick driving a meat wagon. So why not the truth. I’m a big boy now.”

“The truth is that if you get Rand’s you die. And we’re all going to get it.”

“That’s kind of pessimistic, Sam. You a pessimist usually?”

“No. I used to be an optimist once. I even enlisted in the UN Army to make the world a safer place. Did my tours. No, I’m not a pessimist. That’s just the way it is going to have to be.”

“Can’t anything be done about it?” The sergeant hauled on the wheel to take them around a burnt-out semi that almost filled the street.

“No, they’ve tried everything they possibly could, every last possibility…” then Sam stopped, cold. Suddenly angry. “Yes, by God, something can be done. I don’t know if it will work or not, but it is something that hasn’t been tried yet. And when you’re in the position that we are— why then you try anything at all. Would you mind taking me back to Bellevue…”

“My pleasure, Sam.” The tires squealed as they cut in a tight circle. “Be there in two minutes.”

Sam jumped down from the ambulance at the front entrance and waved goodbye to the soldier. The guards there carefully examined his ID before they would admit him. He went directly to the admissions desk and picked up the phone, then dialed locator and told them to trace Professor Chabel, to connect him at once if he hadn’t left the hospital. Then he waited, fighting down his growing impatience. The screen stayed dark, with just the expanding circles of the hold signal in the center, and he looked over the floor nurse’s shoulder at the ward display screens. The patients were sleeping and the wards were dark but clearly revealed to the watching nurse by the infrared illumination and infrared-sensitive TV pick-ups. There was still no answer to his phone call. Reaching over, he dialed the number of Nita’s bed on the close-up screen, and her face appeared over the current readings from the telltales. She was weakening…

“I have Professor Chabel, Doctor.”

He cleared the close-up screen and turned to the phone.

“Professor Chabel, I would like to see you; it’s urgent.”

“I was just leaving the hospital…”

“This can be done very quickly, just a moment if you don’t mind.”

Chabel peered out from the tiny screen, as though trying to define Sam’s thoughts. Then, “If you insist, but you had better come at once. I’m in 3911.”

On the way down in the elevator he remembered that this was McKay’s office, which meant that Eddie Perkins would be there too. It couldn’t be helped, the matter was too urgent. The secretary showed him in at once; Chabel was behind the desk packing papers into his briefcase and Perkins was at the window, drawing heavily on a cigarette.

“What do you want?” Chabel asked, without preamble, and strangely curt.

“I want to go into the ship, the ‘Pericles.’ The ship must be investigated…”

“Impossible, you know that, you heard the decision.”

“Damn the decision! We’re here and it’s our problem, and we can’t be dictated to by a meeting in Stockholm. They are worried only about the possible danger, but we can arrange it so that there is no danger. I’ll go along into the air lock, remember I’ve been there already and nothing happened to me. I won’t touch a thing until that plate you’ve put on has been sealed behind me, with just a phone connection through it so that I can report. Do you see? There is absolutely no danger — I’ll stay in the ship after I have reported, stay there as long as is necessary…”

“Going to solve the world’s problem all by yourself?” Perkins asked coldly.

“It’s out of the question,” Chabel said. “There is nothing more to be discussed, the decision has been made.”

“We can’t abide by that decision, this is too important—”

“You’re beginning to sound hysterical,” Perkins said. “You see what I said, Professor Chabel, this man can’t be relied on.”

“I can’t be relied on?” Sam said angrily. “That’s very funny coming from you, Eddie. You’re not big enough for McKay’s shoes and for the general welfare I suggest that you resign. Have you told Professor Chabel that you refused to take action on Nita Mendel’s report about Rand-gamma in dogs-”

“That’s enough, Doctor!” Chabel interrupted angrily.

“I was afraid this would happen,” Perkins said, not looking at Sam. “That was why I warned you. He has made these charges in private and I have ignored them, but now he has made them in public and something must be done.”

“Something will have to be done about you,

Eddie — not me,“ Sam said, controlling his burning anger only with the greatest effort. ”You’ve bungled and you’ve lied to cover it up. You may be a good surgeon but you are a lousy administrator.“

They both ignored him; Chabel turned to the intercom and pressed it. “Would you have the officer come in now?”

It was going too fast for Sam and he did not realize what was happening until the office door opened and the police lieutenant walked in.

“I don’t want to do this,” Chabel said, “but things… events leave me with no alternative. I’m sorry, Sam, and I hope you’ll understand. The lieutenant is not arresting you, it’s just preventative detention. You’ve forced us to do it. There are irresponsible people who might listen to you and infinite harm could be caused if any attempt were made to enter the spaceship.”

Sam stopped listening. He turned and walked toward the door, head lowered and feet dragging, hoping that they had forgotten one thing, and stopped at the open door as the lieutenant took his arm. They had forgotten. Other than the secretary the outer office was empty. The lieutenant, fortyish and slightly balding, had come alone to arrest a doctor who had opinions different from other doctors, a political charge that could be enforced under martial law. Sam turned to face the room behind him.

“Thanks, Eddie,” he said, and kept turning.

They had forgotten that for almost ten years he had been a combat infantryman.

The lieutenant had not been expecting any trouble; he was off balance and unready. Sam levered on the policeman’s wrist, twisting expertly in a punishing armlock that spun the man about and jarred him off balance just as Sam’s lowered shoulder slammed into the middle of his back. He stumbled across the room and smashed into the white-faced Eddie Perkins — Sam had a last glimpse of them falling together as he closed the door and went quickly by the frightened secretary and into the hall.

How long did he have? The hall was empty and as he ran down it he tried to figure out what to do next. There was no time to panic or just to run, they would be after him within seconds. And no time to wait for an elevator — he pushed through the door to the fire stairs and went down them five at a time. No time to break a leg, either! With an effort he slowed down, then pushed open the door two floors lower down. There were people here and he walked slowly along the corridor and through the swinging doors into the old wing, to a different bank of elevators.

What next? The policeman would have rushed out into the hall to try and catch him, then returned when he found Sam gone. Neither Perkins nor Chabel would have had the presence of mind to do anything while the lieutenant was out. Then the cop would take charge. They were phoning now, probably to the police guard on the main entrance, then to the other entrances, then finally there would be a hospital-wide alarm. The police would be waiting at his room too; he couldn’t change clothes, so even if he got outside the hospital how far could he get in these whites? The elevator doors opened before him and he stepped forward.

“What have you been doing, Sam — running the mile? You’re all in a sweat.”

Dr. Con Roussell walked into the elevator behind him.

“You should know, Con, we were out in the meat wagon together.”

“I lost track of you after we got to the bridge, what a night it was! What happened?” The doors closed and Roussell punched his floor, the twenty-third Sam noticed, the residential floor above his own.

“A lot’s been happening. For one thing Nita — Dr. Nita Mendel has Rand’s.”

“The hell you say! The girl with the red hair that was with you at the ‘Pericles’?” They came out of the elevator, walking together.

“Yes, that’s the one. Everything is going to pieces and the end is nowhere in sight. Do you have any Surital? I’m going to try and get a few hours’ sleep.”

“Sure, in my room — but don’t you have any in your bag?”

“Empty. And I’m not up to trotting along to the pharmacy for more.”

Sam closed the door as Roussell unlocked the wardrobe and took out his bag and rummaged through it. “Are you sure you don’t want Noctec or something like that?” he asked, coming up with the charged hypodermic needle.

“I drink that like mother’s milk,” Sam said, taking the needle. “A few cc’s of this and I’ll sleep like a babe.”

“Take more than six and you’ll be under for twenty-four hours,” Roussell said, turning away. Sam slapped Roussell with the needle, right through his shirt, and emptied the barrel into his arm.

“Sorry, Con,” he said, holding the man until he stopped struggling and sank to his knees. “This way you’ll be in no trouble for aiding and abetting — and you’ll get a good night’s sleep, which you need.”

He quickly dragged the other intern to the bed, then locked the door. By happy chance both of them were almost the same size and the clothes would fit well enough. Sam stripped and dressed in a one-piece blue suit with a little leather-string necktie, which was so popular these days. It was still raining so he put a raincoat envelope into the black bag before he picked it up and went out.

While he dressed he had been thinking, making his mind up as to which would be the safest way out of the giant hospital. More than twenty minutes had elapsed since he pushed over the cop, time enough to alert all the guards at the main entrances. But there were other entrances, to the clinics and kitchens, that were normally neither guarded nor locked. But which one? More police would have arrived by now and would be assigned to the various entrances as fast as they could be checked off on the floor plan of the hospital. That meant he could use none of them safely, but must find a way to leave that they would not think of until they had sealed all the doors.

He knew where he was going, and was sure he could get out that way, and he could be caught only if he met someone who both knew him by sight and was aware that the police were looking for him. To minimize the chances he went through the new X-ray clinic, not opened yet to the public, and down a back stairs in one of the older buildings. There was no one in sight when he reached the hall on the first floor, slipped on the raincoat, then eased the window open. A few weeks earlier some children had pried this window open and broken into the hospital, and when they had been caught, had told how they had got in. The window faced on an alley and was not too far above the ground. No one saw Sam as he swung his legs over the sill, closed the window behind him, then dropped carefully to the ground below.

Now he was out — but what was he to do? His plans didn’t extend past this moment; everything he had done had been almost instinctive flight until now. They had tried to capture him and he had resisted, knowing that they were wrong and that the ship had to be investigated. The “Pericles,” that was still the most important thing, and there was one man who could help him.

General Burke, UNA.

The rain was still falling in steady sheets, blown into eddies on the windy corners, and he was grateful to it since the streets were almost deserted and it gave him some cover. He hurried down Thirty-fourth Street — the rain was also a good excuse for his haste — and turned into the first open bar. It was one of the new, automated, we-never-close kind and, though empty of customers, it had not been shut down. The door opened automatically for him and he headed toward the phone booth in the rear.

“Good morning, sir. A little wet out today, isn’t it.”

The robot bartender behind the bar nodded toward him, industriously polishing a glass, the perfect picture of the pink-jowled and bald bar-keep — though if you leaned far enough over the bar you could see that it was only a torso that ended at the waist. Research had proven that customers, particularly the more inebriated ones, preferred even an imitation man to a flat-faced machine.

“A double Scotch whiskey,” Sam said, stopping at the bar. Now that the hurried escape was over he was feeling the fatigue again. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept: alcohol would carry him a bit longer.

“Here you are, sir, a double it is.”

The robot poured the glass to the top, full, with a convex meniscus bulging above the rim: at least robots didn’t spill the drinks. Sam handed over a five dollar bill. “I’ll need some small change for the phone.”

“Change it is, sir, the customer is always right.”

Sam finished his drink then closed himself in the phone booth. Where was it Burke had said he had his HQ, Fort Jay, was that in the Bronx? No, of course not, it was on Governors Island, he must be tired if he couldn’t remember that. He called book information and the computer gave him the number and he dialed it. Instead of Fort Jay the local operator appeared.

“I’m sorry, but the number you are trying to reach is a restricted military one. Do you have a priority?”

“No, this is a personal call. Isn’t there any way I can call without a priority?”

“Yes, I can connect you to police headquarters on Centre Street, you can explain to them…”

“No, thank you — it’s not that important.” He disconnected at once, then realized that he was sweating. Either the Fort Jay numbers had been on priority for a while — or someone had thought fast and moved even faster. It didn’t matter which because the result was the same; it meant it wasn’t going to be easy to get in touch with the general. Time was ticking away steadily — and Nita’s life was running out.

There was another possibility — the call might have been traced and the police could be on their way here now. Sam hurried out in the driving rain and turned west on Thirty-fourth Street; there were other people in the street now, not many, but enough to give him some concealment. How did he contact Burke? By going to Governors Island, there was no other way. The tunnel was sure to be guarded but he would worry about that after he reached the Battery, where the tunnel entrance was. Getting there was the immediate problem. It was about three miles and he could walk it easily enough, but a lone pedestrian was sure to be spotted and stopped by the police. There were no cabs, and the subways were now running only one automated train an hour. Steal a car? He didn’t know how to go about it. When he reached Lexington Avenue he stopped under the monorail as he noticed a flicker of motion from uptown — a train was coming! Then he was running for the station escalator and pelting up the steps as fast as he could. If he caught this train before anyone realized that he had escaped from the hospital he might stay ahead of the search!

When he ran across the station the train had stopped and the doors were already open; he jammed a token into the slot and pushed through the entrance, but he was too late — the doors were starting to close. Fully automated, without a driver or a conductor, the train was leaving as soon as the controls sensed that there was no one waiting to board.

“Wait!” he shouted angrily — and senselessly— as he ran across the platform. He would never make it in time.

There was a thin girl, the only passenger in the car, and she looked up when he called, then put her hand out between the almost-closed doors. They sprang open and before they could shut again Sam was inside.

“Thanks,” he said, out of breath, as he dropped into a seat.

“That’s all right, you’ll do the same for me someday.” She stood and went to the other end of the car and sat down there, facing away from him. People didn’t get too close these days.

The buildings swept by soundlessly outside, the rain lashed across the window. Sam opened his collar and dabbed away some of the sweat. Once he opened the black bag and looked inside, then slammed it shut without taking anything out. He was tired — but not that tired yet. If he was going to take any chemical stimulation, it would be best to wait until a time when he would really need it. The jointed silver tube of the monorail train rushed downtown.

There was a stop at Wall Street and Sam got off there, the girl watching impassively as he left. No one else emerged from the train and he was alone on the platform, looking down at the narrow and empty canyons of the streets. The business heart of New York, the financial center of North America, empty and deserted in the middle of the day. He bent his shoulders into the driving rain and walked south.

There were police all around the entrance to the tunnel, a squad car parked in a side street and guards on the platform where the small, remote-controlled busses departed for the island. Sam huddled black into a deep doorway and watched the entrance a block away. Had the police been here all the time — or was this all for his benefit? If it was he had better start moving, it wasn’t safe near here. A truck came out of the tunnel and went on without stopping; one policeman waved to it, the only notice they took. Then a staff car appeared, going toward the island and was stopped. Only two officers went over to it but a number of other ones were watching carefully and the barrier remained down. It wasn’t until the identity of the driver had been proven that it was allowed to proceed. Sam started to turn away when he saw another vehicle coming out of the tunnel, a jitter— he recognized the high-wheeled, thin outline at once. He should know it, he had been pounded about in one often enough; these airborne jeeps were overpowered and underweight — magnesium, dural, foam rubber — and riding them was like no other experience in this world. Only the UN Army used them.

Sam eased away from the doorway and as soon as he was out of sight of the tunnel entrance he began to run. Where would the jitter be going? Probably north, uptown — but to the East or West Side — or to the local streets? He had to catch it before it reached the first junction — he ran harder, the breathing tearing in his throat.

When he turned the corner he saw that the jitter had already gone by — but it had stopped just a block away, pulled up in front of the red light. He ran on, trying to go faster. He had to ‘reach the corner before the light changed.

The police car came into the intersection ahead just as the light changed, turning and coming towards him.

There was no place to hide; the solid wall of a building was at Sam’s side. And he was alone on the street, the only pedestrian visible in any direction. Sam slowed to a steady walk as they came close, keeping his eyes from the car. Ahead of him the jitter surged forward and vanished from sight. He walked on an turned the corner — and had a brief glimpse of the police car making a U-turn and coming after him.

He ran again, heading for the illuminated BAR sign halfway down the block. But he couldn’t run all of the way, that would bring instant attention from the police. Before they turned the corner behind him he was walking again, closer still to the bar. Only too aware of the rumble of the engine coming up behind him. The entrance was just ahead of him. He pushed at the door as the policeman leaned out of the car and called to him.

“Hey, you there. I want to talk to you…”

The voice was cut off as the door closed behind him. Sam looked at the dimly lit bar and wondered if he had walked into a trap. Was there a rear entrance? He stopped at the bar and leaned his hands on the scratched, dark wood, half-turned to look out of the front window. The police car was still there. But the car’s door was closed. He could just make out the outline of the driver talking into his microphone. Calling for aid?

“What’ll it be?” the barman said. He was burly, ugly, and staring at Sam through suspicious and slitted eyes.

“Beer.”

Sam dropped a bill onto the bar, then drained half of the glass in a single grateful gulp. He looked around at the room when he lowered the glass, looked for the first time at the men there, and realized that it was about as low a dump as you could find in the city. Almost all of the shabbily dressed men were looking out of the front windows, their attention drawn by the parked police car. The rest were staring at him. Sam drained the beer and left the change on the bar as he picked up his bag and started towards the rear. A thin, ratty individual stepped out and blocked his way.

“Where you going, doc?” the man said.

Sam looked him up and down in silent contempt and started by. The man moved in front of him again as he spoke. “What’s in the bag, doc? Merchandise?”

When he said this everything fell into place for Sam. The repetition of the word doc had made him think like a doctor. The man’s obvious malnour-ishment, the palsy in the dirty fingers, the color of his lips; they all spelled out drug addiction. Nor would he be the only one here. No wonder the clients had been so interested in the police car outside! As well as being equally interested in the contents of his medical bag. Sam nodded slowly.

“I’ve got some items for sale. But not with our friends outside looking on. Is there a back way out?”

The man licked his lips as he smiled. “You better believe it. I’ll show you. I could score some horse, move all you got…”

He led the way down a foul-smelling hall and pushed open a heavy door at the end. They went out into a narrow alleyway half-choked with refuse.

“Uppers, downers, doc, I got a market for everything. Just le’me look through the bag.”

Sam pushed him away. “I’ve changed my mind. You can crawl back inside…”

“Give it to him,” the deep voice said. Sam spun about as the big man came through the door behind them. He took a tape-wrapped length of pipe from inside his heavy pea jacket and slammed it against his palm. His ratty companion had produced a switchblade; the knife snapped open. Sam stepped backward away from them both, raising the bag before him.

“Hand it over, doc, because you got trouble,” ratface said.

Sam retreated again, banging his legs into a container of rubbish; he could back no further, they had him in a corner. He swung the bag back as though trying to keep it away from them.

“You can have it,” he said — then swung it hard into the knife-weielder’s face. The man screeched shrilly as he dropped, the knife clattering from his hand. Sam kept turning as the big man attacked.

Sam couldn’t avoid the club completely. It caught him hard on the right shoulder with a wave of agonizing, numbing pain. The bag dropped from his fingers as he staggered, almost falling. He saw the man draw his arm back for another blow, his thick neck exposed above the heavy jacket.

Sam used the weight of his turning body to jab the stiffened fingers of his left hand straight into the man’s throat.

It was a merciless and destructive blow. The big man gurgled in pain as he fell. Sam’s kick on the side of his head dropped him into merciful unconsciousness.

His companion had just grabbed the fallen knife when Sam stamped on his hand. His squeal of pain was silenced as Sam gripped him by the throat and squeezed hard.

The brief and deadly encounter had taken less than thirty seconds. Sam stood over the two unconscious bodies, gasping in breath after breath, fighting back the nausea from the pain in his shoulder. Nothing seemed to be broken, but the bruise was a wicked one. He massaged his arm as the numbness slowly ebbed away. As soon as he could he pulled off his jacket and dropped it to the ground. It was time to change his appearance; the policeman would surely have called in a description of him. With one hand it was a painful struggle to roll his assailant over and tear off the pea jacket. Police sirens wailed in the distance. With a final heave he pulled it off. Then he grabbed up his bag and stumbled off down the alleyway in the opposite direction, pulling on the jacket as he went.

The street at the end was empty. He hurried across it and into an equally repulsive alley on the other side. When he had gone three blocks without being seen he dropped into a black doorway to rest. The rain had stopped for the time being and he was almost comfortable.

For the moment. But still no closer to his goal. As his breathing slowed and his heart stopped laboring he forced himself to make some kind of plan.

The jitter was still the best bet. There had been one — there should be more. If he worked his way uptown, out of sight of the tunnel, he would be ready for any others that came along from either direction. A simple and obvious plan but all he could think of at the moment.

Surprisingly enough it worked at first try. He was just coming to the corner as the light turned to red and the jitter squealed to a stop. Although there were no other vehicles in sight the well-trained military driver still braked for the light. The light changed to green as Sam ran forward. “Wait, over here!” he called out.

The driver automatically hit the brakes when he heard the shout. The officer sitting next to him turned quickly, his.75 recoilless machine pistol pointed at Sam.

“I’m a doctor!” Sam called, waving the black bag. Perhaps it might help. The officer said something out of the side of his mouth and the machine wheeled around in a tight circle and rolled toward Sam. The muzzle of the gun stayed trained on him.

“What do you want?” the officer asked, a young second lieutenant, hard and thin, but still young.

Sam looked at the lieutenant’s shoulder patch, the familiar battered dove with an olive branch in its beak and a crutch tucked under its wing, and he couldn’t help smiling.

“You’re with the Fifth Airborne so you must know Cleaver Burke…”

“Are you referring to General Burke? Make it fast, what do you want?” The lieutenant poked the gun in Sam’s direction. He was tired and on edge. And Sam had to convince him quickly; a police car might pass at any moment and would certainly stop to see what was happening this close to the tunnel. He leaned closer to the lieutenant with his face expressionless as he spoke through his barely open mouth.

“General Burke is ‘Cleaver’ to his friends, Lieutenant — but only to close personal friends. Do you understand that? I want you to bring him a message from me.” Sam opened his bag and reached for a pad of prescription forms, ignoring the gun that swung to cover his movements.

“Why should I bring any messages for you…”

“Because I’ve asked you to, and Cleaver is waiting for this message — and just what do you think would happen to you if Cleaver didn’t get it?”

Sam wrote swiftly without looking up; the silence grew taut.

Cleaver — I’ve changed my mind. We’re going into it. Having trouble. Have boat pick me up land end pier 15 East River. Capt. Green

“I won’t be going back to the island for an hour at least, sir,” the lieutenant said, and Sam knew he had won. The officer’s tone was the same, but the Sir made all the difference.

“That will do fine.” Sam folded the note and handed it to him. “For your own sake, Lieutenant, I suggest that you do not read this message nor show it to anyone other than General Burke. That will be the best for everyone.”

The officer buttoned it into his breast pocket without a word and the jitter buzzed away. Even if the man did read it, it wouldn’t mean much — to anyone but Cleaver. The signature was meaning-less — but the rank was his old one and the lieutenant would describe him. If the note reached Cleaver they would come for him at once.

It was ten now and it would be physically impossible for the boat to be there before eleven at the very earliest. Sam began to work his way north slowly, keeping a careful eye out for moving cars. Two patrol cars passed, but both times he saw them well in advance. In one of the doorways where he took shelter he found an open garbage can and he buried the black bag under the rubbish in it. The alarm would be out for him by now and anything that marked him as a doctor had to be avoided. On Maiden Lane, within sight of the gray water of the East River, a robot bar was doing a good business; it takes more than a plague to keep sailors out of a saloon and the place was half full. Sam ordered a roast beef sandwich, there were still some in deep freeze, and a bottle of beer from the robot bartender — it was tricked out in an un-wholesomely cute pirate eye patch and neckerchief — and ate slowly. By eleven he was walking along the waterfront looking for a secure spot where he could wait. There were some heavy crates next to the warehouse on pier 15 at the foot of Fletcher Street, and by hunkering down between them he was concealed from sight on the land side. It was wet and uncomfortable but he had a good view of the slip, although the end of the pier was half concealed by fog and falling rain.

There was the sound of heavy motors as an occasional ship passed, but too far out for him to see in the mist. Once a louder hammer of an engine drew his attention and he pulled himself further back between the boxes as a river police launch rumbled by, sweeping close to the end of the pier but not turning into the slip. By noon he was soaked through and getting bitter, and by one o’clock he was thinking of the eighty different things he would like to do to the pinheaded lieutenant if he ever saw him again.

At exactly 1:13 the silent shape of a small recon boat swung into the slip and coasted toward him with only the slightest burble of sound coming from its underwater hydraulic jets. Standing in the bow was the lieutenant. Sam pulled himself to his feet, stiff and cramped, and the boat nosed in his direction.

“If you knew what I have been thinking about you—” Sam said, and smiled.

“I don’t blame you, sir,” the lieutenant said, chewing nervously at his lower lip as he held out his hand to help Sam off the ladder. “I was less than an hour getting back to the tunnel, but there was some kind of trouble there with the police and everything was jammed up. It was only about a half an hour ago that I got through and brought your note to the general. You were right, sir,” he tried a tentative smile. “I’ve never seen him act like that before, not even in combat. He went up like an A-bomb and he got this boat from somewhere and had it in the water and me and the coxswain and all in it, inside of ten minutes.”

“Here we go,” the coxswain said, opening the throttle and turning in a tight circle. Sam and the lieutenant moved into the bow to get some protection from the low windshield and, at the same moment, they saw the river police launch nose around the end of the pier and head toward them.

“Get down!” the lieutenant said, but Sam had already dropped onto the deck, sheltering behind the low sides. “Get under that tarp.”

The T5 coxswain in the stern kicked a bundled up tarpaulin toward Sam without looking down as he did it, and it stopped at the ammunition boxes in the waist. Sam wriggled over to it, drew it toward him and struggled to open it without rising high enough to be seen: he could hear the launch rumbling closer. The stiff canvas resisted and in desperation he kicked hard into the folds with his feet and pulled it up over him. With his knees against his chest he could just about fit under the unrolled part and the last thing he saw as he pulled his head under was the lieutenant turning to face the police boat and resting his fingers, by chance, on the trigger guard of his machine pistol.

“Stop your engine… what are you doing here?” an amplified voice bellowed across the narrowing stretch of water.

“Keep it moving, slow as you can,” the lieutenant said, just loudly enough for the coxswain to hear. Sam sweated under the stifling cover, unable to move or to see the launch swinging closer. “Official business,” the lieutenant shouted across the water.

“What do you mean?” The launch was so close now that they had abandoned the bullhorn. “Catch this line, we want to search you.”

Sam controlled his involuntary movement as the rope thudded across the canvas. The lieutenant reached out his foot and kicked it into the water.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is a unit engaged on active duty and we’ve just put some equipment ashore and our orders are to return at once.”

The launch had stopped and the policemen on deck were all armed: a power turret with quadruple recoilless one-inchers was manned and the barrels depressed. The Army boat, moving slowly, was already past the stern of the other boat. The police sergeant looked down at it angrily.

“Stop at once — that is an order. Or…”

“This is a military zone, you cannot issue any orders to me.” The lieutenant swung up his machine pistol and aimed it at the launch. “Open her wide when I say good-by,” he said in a low voice to the coxswain; then loudly, “If you attempt to restrain us I will open fire. I’m sure you don’t want any incidents like that, do you? So let’s just say good-by.”

A loud burbling sounded under the keel and the boat leaped forward; the lieutenant braced himself against the sudden thrust and kept the gun aimed at the launch.

“Stop there! Stop!” the bullhorn shouted and the launch started to swing about but no shots were fired. Before it had turned all the way the recon boat had cleared the end of the pier and swung downstream. The lieutenant dropped down as they began pounding from wave crest to wave crest.

“Can we outrun them?” Sam asked, throwing off the tarp.

“With one jet plugged,” the lieutenant said. He was smiling easily but his forehead was dotted with drops of sweat as well as rain. “This is one of the new jobs, no armor, no range — but it can beat anything that floats.”

Sam looked back, the dock had vanished in the mist and the launch still hadn’t appeared.

“Thanks, Lieutenant…?”

“Haber, Dennis Haber. They call me Dan.”

“… Thanks, Dan. That wasn’t so easy.”

“It was easy, I guarantee it. The general told me to come back with you, or to get you back alone, but if I came back without you… listen, you know the general. I would much rather get into a fire fight with the cops any day.”

“I think you’re right.”

They grabbed for handholds as the boat heeled over to miss a buoy, then straightened out toward Governors Island again. The dark shape of the fort was already visible ahead and the coxswain throttled back, heading for a narrow dock that paralled the shore. A jitter was waiting there and its motor ground into life as they approached. Cleaver Burke climbed out of it and helped Sam up from the boat himself, his fingers clamping like pliers.

“I’m glad you changed your mind, Sam — it’s about time we had some action over that spaceship. Now, with the right publicity, we can get enough public approval to open it up.” Lieutenant Haber went into the front of the jitter while they stepped over the low side into the back.

“It’s too late for the publicity, Cleaver. Too much has changed and I — well, I’ll tell you when we’re alone.”

“Alone?” The general lowered his thick eyebrows in the well-known scowl that always meant trouble. “Don’t you know where you are? This is my unit, my driver… and Dan there is one of my officers. Now bite it out, boy. What’s all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense?”

“The police are after me.”

“Is that all? They won’t arrest you here, hah! Is there any secret why they are after you?”

“They don’t want me to get in touch with you.”

“Well, they haven’t been doing too well.” He glanced at Sam out of the corners of his eyes. “And just what is wrong with your getting in touch with me?”

“That should be obvious, Cleaver — they’re afraid of trouble and they don’t want any interference with Operation Cleansweep.”

“Maybe I’m being a little thick today, Sam. What can you or I do that could possibly interfere with Cleansweep?”

“You might cause trouble over the Emergency Council’s decision about A-bombing the ‘Pericles.’”

“Now isn’t that interesting,” Cleaver said, and his voice was suddenly very cold. “This is the first time I have heard anything about that.”

The jitter bounced to a stop in front of the headquarters building. “Come up to my office,” Cleaver told Sam, then turned to the lieutenant and the driver. “Pass the word along that no civilians have come to this island today and no one here has ever heard of a Dr. Bertolli.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Haber said as he saluted. “You’ll be alone in your office now, General?”

“You catch on quick, boy. You better hang around the orderly room and take my calls for a while. The corporal here can carry the message back to the dock.”

Once inside, with the door closed, Cleaver relinquished his hold on his temper. “Politicians,” he snorted, stamping the length of the room. “Meatheads! Sitting up there on their fat duffs and making unilateral decisions that may affect the entire future of the human race — and making those decisions out of fear. I hadn’t realized that the old philosophy of a bomb-waving solution for international problems was still lurking in dark, spider-filled corners of the political mind. Cretins! They talk about war on disease without realizing that it is a war, particularly now, and has to be run like a war. We need good intelligence and the only place we’re going to find it is inside that spaceship. They’re operating out of fear — if you can’t run away from the unknown, why just blow it up!”

“They seem to be afraid of you too, Cleaver— even though you are under UN command. Why else wouldn’t they inform you about the decision to destroy the ”Pericles‘?“

The general pulled open a file cabinet and took out a giant, two-quart bottle of bourbon. “Get the glasses out of the desk drawer,” he said, then rilled the large water glasses almost to the brim. “Are they really afraid I’ll bust into that spacer?”

“It looks like it.”

“Well — should I? What’s the reason you want to look at it? What do you think we can find?”

Sam had the glass raised to his lips when he stopped suddenly, frozen, then slowly Iowered it, untasted, back to the desk.

He knew what they would find in the ship.

This was no logical conclusion but a leap in the dark as his subconscious put together a number of clues that had been collecting ever since the spaceship had landed. It was a single answer that could explain everything that had happened — yet it was an incredible answer that he did not dare speak aloud if he wanted Cleaver to help him get into the “Pericles.” He couldn’t tell him this, so he had to fall back upon the general’s own arguments.

“We can’t possibly know what we’ll find in there, Cleaver, though there should surely be records of some kind. The important thing is that we cannot completely ignore the possibility of missing out on anything that might be of help. And there is — well — something else.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, it’s just a guess — a wild hunch— and so wild I don’t want to talk about. But I do know that we must get into that ship.”

“That’s not much to go on, Sam, you realize that? Not now. It would have been enough awhile back when we could have raised a political stink and got some public pressure working on our side to take a look into the ship. But public pressure and publicity are out now and there is only one way left that we can get into that ship…” He broke off, swirling the liquor round and round in his glass before drinking the remainder in a long swallow.

“I’ll say it so you won’t have to, Cleaver. We’ll have to break into that rocket by force — in spite of the guards.”

When he finally answered, the general’s voice was flat and empty of emotion.

“That’s treason you’re talking about, boy — do you know that? And I’m a serving officer in the Army in a time of international peril. If I did what you’re suggesting I could be shot.”

“If you don’t do it, people are going to keep right on dying by the thousands then by the tens of thousands — because I can guarantee that we’re no closer now to finding a cure for Rand’s disease than we were the day it started. I took the same oath of allegiance that you did, Cleaver, and I’d break it in an instant if I felt that the people on the top had made a wrong decision over a danger as big as this one. And they have made a wrong decision…”

“I know they have — but it’s asking too much, Sam! I agree the ship should be entered, but I can’t bring myself to do it this way, not with the slight evidence, guesses and hunches that we have—”

A light knocking on the door interrupted him and he threw it open angrily. “What the devil do you want?” he asked Lieutenant Haber, who was uncomfortably standing there.

“I’m sorry, sir, I’ve been turning away all the calls and people who wanted to see you but — there is a call on the hot line, I didn’t feel qualified to take it.”

General Burke hesitated for a single instant. “That’s fine, Haber. Put it through to me here.”

He relocked the door then seated himself behind the large desk where there sat three phones, one of them a brilliant red.

“Top secret direct line,” he said, picking up the hand set. “Keep out of range of the pickup.”

It was a brief conversation, almost a monologue because Burke said little more than yes and no, then hung up. He seemed to have aged a bit and he rested his hands on the desk top as though he were tired.

“It’s happened,” he finally said. “More cases of the plague, people dropping on the streets. Your labs at Bellevue have confirmed the change.”

“You mean that…”

“Yes. People can catch it now from one another, it doesn’t need the dogs and birds any more. I can see them at the Emergency Council as soon as they hear about this, reaching for their bombs. Just as sure as eggs is eggs they are going to wipe out this plague spot and the few odd million people that happen to be in it at the time, which will probably include you and me.”

He stood and tightened his belt.

“We’re going to crack that rocket ship ‘Pericles’ open, boy. That’s the only hope we have in hell.”