The Jupiter Plague

5

“The Rand-alpha virus didn’t propagate in human tissue culture,” Nita said, her hands clasped so tightly together that her fingertips were white, “so there is almost no chance that you will catch the disease.” She was trying to reassure herself as much as him and he recognized the fact. It had been an abrupt change for her, to move in a single day from the quiet laboratory to this jarring contact with death.

“Little or no chance at all,” he said. “Hadn’t you better report to McKay what we have done while I take a look at the patient?”

The policeman was still asleep — but was his breathing hoarser? Sam thumbed the transcript button on the medical recorder and it whirred softly as it scanned the minute-to-minute record it had made of the patient’s medical history since he had been placed in the bed. There was a clunk and the sheet of graph paper fell into Sam’s hand. He followed the recorded curves of the different instruments and they all showed a steady deterioration up until the time of the interferon injection. At this point — almost three hours earlier — the decline leveled off, even improved slightly when the antipyretic brought the fever down. But the remission was over, the fever was rising again, blood pressure decreasing and the stricken man was sliding once more toward the threshold of death. Sam at once prepared another injection of interferon and administered it. It appeared to have no effect.

“Dr. McKay was very angry,” Nita said. “Then he said that we must keep accurate account of what happens, he thinks you’re an insane fool— I’m quoting — but he thanks you for doing it. Has there… been anything?” She turned his wrist so she could look at the dials of the telltale there.

“No, no reaction at all, you can see for yourself. There’s no reason that there should be, human tissue culture is sensitive enough. If Rand-alpha were transmittable to human tissue we would know it by now.”

Once more a patient of Dr. Bertolli was dying before his eyes and there was nothing he could do. The interferon had worked at first, delaying the onslaught by a few hours, but it would not work a second time. Higher and higher the fever rose and the antipyretic no longer affected it. The heart-lung machine was attached and then the artificial kidney when renal failure seemed imminent. Sam’s only hope was that he could aid the patient’s body in its fight against the invading virus, support it with transfusions of whole blood and stave off any secondary infections with antibiotics. It was a hopeless cause but he would not admit it. This was a battle he had to win, but he could not. Only when Nita pulled at his arm and he became aware that she was crying did he turn away.

“Sam, he’s dead, please, there’s nothing more you can do.”

The exhaustion hit him then; how long had it been, twelve hours or more? He looked at his watch and noticed the telltale on his arm. It was registering normally, though his pulse was depressed with fatigue. He had forgotten all about it! If he were going to catch the virulent Rand’s disease he would have had it by now; the experiment had paid off, he was safe. It seemed a small victory after the tragedy of the last hours.

“Sit down, please,” she said, “and here’s some black coffee.” He sipped it first, then gulped at it, drinking almost the entire cup at once before he put it down.

“What’s been happening?” he asked. “It’s after two in the morning.”

“We’ve been released from quarantine, that was Dr. McKay’s decision. He said if there were no symptoms by midnight that the quarantine was over…” She put her hand on his arm as he started to rise. “Now, wait, please, finish the coffee and hear the rest.”

He hesitated a moment, then sat down heavily. “It’s good coffee and I’ll have another cup.” He almost smiled. “I’m sorry if I have been acting like an idiot, but this whole dirty business has been so personal, ever since Rand came out of the ship, practically falling into our arms. Here, sit down, and have some coffee yourself.”

She poured the coffee and stirred cream and sugar into hers.

“The city is in a very bad way,” she said. “I can tell that from the medical reports. The Rand-beta virus is easy to pick up and deadly. The birds die very quickly after being infected, but by the time they do their entire body and all their feathers are coated with the virus. Apparently the virus spreads by simple contact with the skin, all of the people who have caught it have either handled a bird or touched the ground where the bird has been. The virus eventually dies after leaving the host, but they are not sure yet how long it takes.”

“How many cases have there been?”

She hesitated a moment before she answered. “Over three thousand the last I heard.”

“So fast! — What’s being done?”

“So far just stopgap measures, but there is a meeting going on right now, all the medical authorities, the mayor, police, everyone, here in Bellevue in auditorium number two. Professor Chabel of World Health is the chairman and he wants you to come down. I saved that information for last because you looked like you needed the cut of coffee first.”

“I did,” he said, standing and stretching, more under control. Nita stood too, very close, and his hands went out, almost of their own volition, taking her by the shoulders. He started to say something but he was aware only of the warmth of her flesh through the thin cotton smock. Then he was pulling her closer and her lips were on his, firm and alive, her strong arms holding him tightly against her body.

“Well!” he said, more than a little surprised at himself. “I’m really not sure why I did that. I’m sorry…”

“Are you?” She was smiling. “Well, I’m not. I thought it was very nice. Though I imagine it would feel even better after you have shaven.”

When he ran his fingers up his cheeks they rasped like sandpaper. “I hadn’t realized it — I must look like a porcupine, I certainly feel like one. Before I go down to that meeting I’ll have to get rid of these.”

The ship lighting around the mirror in the bathroom threw back dazzling highlights from the glazed tile and polished metal fixtures, and Sam squinted at his features through the glare. The radiating head of the supersonic shaver moved smoothly over his skin, shattering the brittle whiskers, but was irritatingly audible when he pressed too hard over the bone. The shaver’s sound was of course too high pitched to hear directly, but it vibrated his skull and set up overtones that whined in his inner ear like a fleet of tiny insects. His eyes were red-rimmed and set in darkened sockets. Aspirin would take care of the headache and five milligrams of Benzedrine would get him through the meeting, but he would have to stop by his room first and get some shoes; the white jacket and pants would be all right but he couldn’t very well wear the cotton scuffs.

“Will you let me know what is going to happen?” Nita asked as he was leaving. He nodded as he pushed again, impatiently, on the door switch as it slowly began the opening cycle.

“Yes, I’ll phone you as soon as I can,” he said distractedly, thinking about the city outside. He would have to be prepared for a number of changes.

When the outer door finally opened after the sterilizing cycle and Sam stepped through, the first thing he saw was Killer Dominguez stretched out asleep on a bench outside. Killer opened one eye suspiciously when the door mechanism hummed, then jumped to his feet.

“Welcome back to civilization, Doc, for a while there we were afraid they were gonna throw away the key on you, but I got it on the grapevine that you were outta quarantine so I came along as a committee of one to offer congratulations.”

“Thanks, Killer. Did the grapevine also tell you that I had to get right down to this meeting?”

“It did. And Charley Stein in the gyn lab said they would probably incinerate all your clothes. Including shoes? I asked, and he said no doubt of it.” Killer reached under the bench and dragged out a pair of white, gum-soled shoes. “So I figured at least you oughta have a pair of shoes, so I got these out of your room, and I see I figured right.”

“You’re a friend in need, Killer,” Sam said, kicking off the scuffs and zipping up the shoes. “You’ve been on duty while I’ve been locked up here — what’s it like outside?”

For the first time since Sam had known him Killer’s face lost its neutral expression of urban sophistication, falling into lines of fatigue and worry.

“It’s rough. Doc — and it’s gonna get rougher. Everyone’s staying in the house with the doors locked but pretty soon they’re gonna start getting low on food and figure the best thing to do is to visit the relatives in the country and then the fun’ll start. The whole thing’s being played down by the papers and TV, but it ain’t too hard to read between the lines. What they print got nothing to do with what is happening. I been out with the wagon and I’ve seen a lot. A riot on the East Side where the manager locked up the Safeway all day. People got angry and pushed until the door broke in. After that they just went nuts. Grabbing everything that they could, filling the shopping carts and just pushing them out the door. The manager tried to stop them and I saw this big guy cut him bad. People just laughed and got out of there with their loot. I never seen anything like it before.”

“That’s panic, Killer, you’ve seen it before.”

“Yeah, but not like this. Not a whole city, millions of people, all in a panic. Went to pick up on a call, but never got near the woman. They killed her, just because they thought she had it and they would catch it from her. People is animals.”

“No, just frightened.”

“I’m frightened — but I’m not stomping anymore.”

“I think we’ll have it under control soon,” Sam said as they went to the elevator, wishing he could put more sincerity into his words. “Once we’ve stopped the birds from spreading Rand’s disease it will die out.”

“There’re a lot of birds in the world, Doc,” Killer said, chewing idly on a toothpick, his accustomed unshakable expression back.

The entrance to auditorium number two was closed and guarded by an unsmiling policeman who refused Sam admittance and kept his hand on his belt near his gun while he talked. When he had been reassured that Sam did have business here he called on his helmet radio and a few minutes later Eddie Perkins, one of the resident surgeons, opened the door. Killer vanished and Eddie ushered Sam into the cloakroom.

“I have to brief you first,” he said, “before you go in there. It’s turning into a real battle.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“You might as well ask.” Eddie smiled crookedly and took out a pack of cigarettes and when Sam refused lit one himself. “I’ve been drafted with Dr. McKay’s team. He’s been officially placed in charge of the medical investigation and treatment for Rand’s disease; everyone remembers what he did with Topholm’s pachyacria. He throws some weight with the public health people, less with the police and military, and none at all with the vote-hungry politicians. He’s trying to convince the governor that he should declare martial law so the UN Army can come in — we’ll need them sooner or later, so it’s better sooner— and at the same time we should destroy every bird within a hundred mile radius of New York.”

“There must be hundreds of state parks and game sanctuaries in that area. I can imagine what the conservationists are going to say!”

“They’ve already said it — and to the governor, who you’ll remember is up for reelection in the fall.”

“What can I do about all this?”

“McKay says you can probably swing the vote the right way; he’s been stalling until you showed up. You make an entrance and everyone will shut up and listen to what you have to say. You’re the hero of the moment, the guy who first saw Rand and who went into quarantine with him, then took a dose of the bugs to prove that Rand-alpha is not communicable between human beings. Once that’s shown to be true the panic about catching the disease will die down along with all the talk about evacuating the city, and it will stop the worry about quarantining the cases we have so far. Then once you establish the noncommunicability of Rand-alpha you have to say in a loud and clear voice that the only way Rand-beta can be stopped is by killing a few million birds. Do you agree?”

“I — yes, of course I do. It sounds like a horrible idea, but it is the only thing to do when we have no cure for the disease. Stop it now before it spreads and we’ll have it stopped forever.”

“That’s the old fighting spirit,” Perkins said as he started for the door. “Convince the ward heelers of that and we can get on with the job. Give me a two-minute start so I can tip off McKay, then bust in. Go right up to the platform, we’ll be waiting for you.”

They were slow minutes. Sam straightened his white jacket in the cloakroom mirror and tried to brush away some of the wrinkles. His throat was dry, just the way it used to be before a combat drop. Politicians! But they had to be convinced at once. Every minute’s delay spread the circle of contamination further. He pushed through the door and went down the aisle of the partially filled hall toward the impressive group of uniforms and business suits seated around the long table on the platform. Heads turned toward him and Dr. McKay broke off his speech and greeted him.

“Now, gentlemen, we can at last have a few facts to deal with, incontrovertible facts and evidence on which we can base a logical decision. This is Dr. Bertolli, whom I think you all know by name.”

A murmur rippled through the hall and Sam tried to ignore the staring eyes as he climbed the four steps to the stage. McKay waved him to his side.

“At the present moment Dr. Bertolli is the world’s clinical authority on Rand’s> disease. He was the one who met Rand when the ship landed and attended his case in quarantine here, as well as the second case, that of Police Officer Miles. In addition he is the man who conducted the experiments that have just proven that we can only catch Rand’s disease from birds, not from one another. Dr. Bertolli, will you tell us, what were the nature of these experiments?”

When McKay said this, Sam realized that the man was a shrewd politician as well as a physician. By not revealing the exact nature of the communicability tests he had set the stage for a dramatic revelation by Sam. Sam normally did not have much use for political doctors, but he realized that at this moment he would have to be one himself. His audience had to be convinced. There was an expectant silence as he turned to face them.

“Laboratory tests have revealed that Rand’s disease appears to have two forms, called alpha and beta for identification. Commander Rand died of Rand-alpha, but it was impossible for him to infect any creature other than members of the class aves, birds, since any and all kinds of birds apparently can catch this disease from man. When the birds become infected the disease becomes Rand-beta, a virulent form that can be passed on to other birds or to human beings. However, when man catches it, it appears as Rand-alpha again— this is what Officer Miles died of. This disease can not be communicated to others.”

“How do you know, Doctor?” McKay interrupted.

“Because I injected myself with the live virus taken from Miles.”

Sam broke off as a concerted gasp ran through the audience; those at the table nearest him inadvertently leaned away. McKay had a cold smile as he put his hand on Sam’s arm.

“There is no need to be alarmed. If Dr. Bertolli were to have contracted the disease he would have the obvious symptoms by now; it has been observed that all of the cases now under treatment developed within one hour of exposure.” He dropped his arm and sat back in his chair, looking directly at Sam, who stood alone, facing the silent audience. “Do you have any more suggestions for the treatment of Rand’s disease, Doctor?”

“None,” Sam said, then let the silence stretch. “As of this present moment the disease is incurable. Anyone who contracts it will die. The only way to prevent it will be to wipe out the reservoirs of infection, to kill every bird within ten miles of New York City, or twenty miles or a hundred or a thousand, whatever is needed to make sure that not a single bird escapes. I know this is a shocking idea, but there is no alternative. To put it very simply — it is the birds or us.”

There were a number of angry shouts, which Dr. McKay ignored, almost turning his back so he would not have to notice the red-faced governor of New York State, who had sprung to his feet.

“We have one person here who is qualified to tell us what must be done, Professor Burger, curator of the New York Zoological Park. Professor Burger…”

Burger was a slight man with a pink, bald head covered by a few carefully placed strands of white hair. He spoke with his face lowered and he was difficult to hear until the hall grew quiet.

“… patterns of flight and normal roosting and homing behavior of various species. I have worked out the maximum area of possible infection, representing, we might say, a diseased bird of one of the more free-ranging species being infected and flying until unable to continue, then infecting another and so forth. I would therefore say—” He shuffled through the papers before him and a muttering grew in the audience. “I beg your indulgence, gentlemen,” he said, raising his head, and it could be seen that his eyes were wet and tears marked his cheeks. “I have just come from the zoo, where we have killed, poisoned all of our birds, all of them — yes, here are the figures. A radius from Manhattan of one hundred miles in all directions, slightly more on Long Island to take in Montauk Point, should be satisfactory. Though this area may have to be extended depending on later reports.”

“That’s impossible,” someone shouted. “That will be an area of nearly ten thousand square miles, it would take an army!”

“It will need the Army,” Burger said. “The UN Army must be called on for help. It will need gas, poison bait, shotguns, explosives…”

Slowly, through the following uproar, Professor Chabel’s gavel could be heard, banging for attention. He continued until his voice could be heard.

“This is a problem of World Health, which is why I was selected to chair this meeting. I believe we have heard all that is necessary to make a decision and I call for an immediate vote.”

There were more complaints at this which died away even more slowly. The vote, when it was finally counted, was no landslide, but the effective measures had been passed. The Army would move in and the slaughter would begin at dawn.