The Mammoth Book of Terror

KARL EDWARD WAGNER WAS one of the genre’s finest practitioners of horror and dark fantasy, and his untimely death in 1994 robbed the field of one of its major talents.

Born in Knoxville, Tennessee, Wagner earned his M.D. from the University of North Carolina School of Medicine in 1974 and trained as a psychiatrist before becoming a multiple British Fantasy and World Fantasy Award-winning author, editor and publisher. His early writing included a series of fantasy novels and stories featuring Kane, the Mystic Swordsman. His first novel, Darkness Weaves With Many Shades (1970), introduced the unusually intelligent and brutal warrior-sorcerer, and Kane’s adventures continued in Death Angel’s Shadow, Bloodstone, Dark Crusade and the collections Night Winds and The Book of Kane. More recently, the complete Kane novels and stories have been brought together in two volumes by Night Shade Books as Gods in Darkness and Midnight Sun.

He edited three volumes of Robert E. Howard’s definitive Conan adventures and continued the exploits of two of Howard’s characters, Conan and Bran Mak Morn respectively, in the novels The Road of Kings and Legion from the Shadows. He also edited three Echoes of Valor heroic fantasy anthologies and a collection of medical horror stories, Intensive Scare. He took over the editing of The Year’s Best Horror Stories in 1980 and for the next fourteen years turned it into one of the genre’s finest showcases.

Wagner’s own superior short horror tales were collected in In a Lonely Place, Why Not You and I? and Unthreatened by the Morning Light. A tribute collection entitled Exorcisms and Ecstasies was published in 1997.

“Health is such a chancy thing,” explained the author. “And so precious.

“That’s why there are doctors.

“That’s why you go to them.

“But you are afraid of them. Afraid of their offices and hospitals. Afraid of their questions and examinations. Afraid of their poking and probing. Afraid of their pills and needles. Afraid of their scalpels and sutures. Afraid of lying helpless and naked beneath the sterile murmur of fluorescent lights.

“Helpless.

“Can you understand their jargon, their professional aloofness? The half-hearted words, distracted frowns, and flutter of charts and lab reports? The impersonal cluster of peering faces over your bed?

“Best not to try. Just lie there and trust. And pray. What’s your choice?

“But then . . .

“Suppose the doctor isn’t just what you imagined?

“You’re lying there on the bed, vulnerable and half-naked in a humiliating hospital gown.

“You see, scalpels don’t care who they cut.

“And no one ever gets well in a hospital.

“You’re never closer to death. Never more helpless. This is real terror.

“Trust me.

“I’m a doctor.”

I

“I HAD A FRIEND at St Johns you would have liked to have met,” observed Dr Metzger. “At least the idea you’ve brought up reminds me of some of our old undergraduate bull sessions.”

“Bull sessions?” responded Dr Thackeray, his frosty brows wavering askance.

Geoff laughed easily. “Never underestimate the value of a liberal arts background, Dr Thackeray. St Johns men could find loftier subjects to drain a keg of beer over than the matter of a cheerleader’s boobs – especially with cheerleaders in short supply.

“No, Kirk Walker was something of a medievalist – and certainly a romanticist. Fancied himself the last of the Renaissance men, or some such, I imagine. Anyway, he used to put away booze like a Viking raiding party, and often he’d kick around some impossibly half-assed ideas. Argue them with dignified tenacity through all our hooting – and you were never sure whether he was serious, or handing us another piece of outrageous whimsy.

“But one of the points he liked to bring up was this idea that modern science, as we call it, isn’t all that modern. Maintained that substantial scientific knowledge and investigation have existed on a recondite basis since early history – and not just as hocus-pocus and charlatanry.”

“As I have suggested,” Dr Thackeray nodded, drawing on his cigar and tilting his padded desk chair a fraction closer to overbalance.

“Pity Kirk isn’t here to talk with a kindred soul,” Geoff Metzger continued. “He used to drag out all manner of evidence to support his claim. Go on about Egyptian artifacts, Greek thinkers, Byzantine and later Roman writings, Islamic studies after the Roman Lake changed owners, Jewish cabalism, secret researches by certain monks, on through the Dark Ages and into the so-called Renaissance – even threw out bits of Chinese history. He’d go wild talking about the quattrocento and the cinquecento and dozens of Italian names no one else had heard of- then Central Europe and France and England, and people like Bacon and Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. That was really the astonishing thing. I mean, all of us at St Johns were supposed to be well read and well versed in the classics and those great and mouldy books, but Kirk was something else. God knows how much that guy must have read!”

“Your friend Walker sounds like a man I ought to meet,” Dr Thackeray broke in.

Metzger’s face saddened. “I’m sorry to say you can’t. Quite a tragic story about old Kirk. He went on to med school after St Johns, too – some big Southern school of notable reputation. Wasn’t happy there for some reason, and ran afoul of the administration. Left after a rather stormy scene. Died not long thereafter – Hodgkins, I believe. Everyone felt bad about it at the time.”

“A pity.”

“Yes, it was. I must say I’m surprised to find someone of your position giving credence to such similar ideas. Guess maybe we took Kirk more lightly than we might have. Still, he was always one for elaborate jokes. Strange guy.” Geoff s eye fell to wandering along the impressively filled shelves which lined Dr Thackeray’s office. These walls of conglomerate knowledge – concentrated to blocky solidity, properly bound and systematically shelved – exuded the weighty atmosphere of learned dignity that one expected for the sanctum of the Chairman of the Department of Medicine.

“And why did your friend believe this unsuspected depth of scientific knowledge was kept in secret?” the older man asked carefully.

“Kirk was vague,” returned Metzger, downing his acrid coffee before it got colder. A grimy residue stained the bottom of the Styrofoam cup, and he reflected bitterly that hospital coffee deteriorated with every medical center he came to.

“He had several reasons, though. For one thing, he’d argue that our basic conception of the past comes through writings of the past, and that these writers viewed their world from their own particular set of terms. The idea of progress – in fact, the conception of science as we understand it – is a relatively modern development of thought. In another age this was altogether different. To the bulk of the populace, scientific knowledge would have been no more than a pointless exercise, useless to them. What would a serf care about a microscope? It wouldn’t clothe and feed him. What would an intellectual care about the discovery of microorganisms? Plagues were the punishment of God or the work of Satan.

“And the language of the day was totally different; there simply were no words – nor even systems of thought- to convey scientific conceptions. Thus every man who studied the stars was an astrologer, while the thoughtful investigator of elemental or molecular structure was only another alchemist seeking to create gold. And to be sure, many of these men were only superstitious dabblers in the occult. With the ignorance or even hostility of most writers of the day, fool and genius were lumped together, and the early scientist was categorized as being in league with the devil. He was ignored and mocked at best, more often persecuted by the authorities of the land. We know of several brilliant thinkers who were condemned to the stake for their efforts – or had near misses, like Galileo.

“It is any wonder then that Walker’s protoscientists kept their work secret, shared their discoveries only with a select brotherhood? At least, that was Kirk’s theory.”

Dr Thackeray considered his cigar. “Interesting. And, as you say, tragic. Medicine needs men of his caliber – and men like yourself, Dr Metzger.”

Geoff smiled at the compliment. Coming from the Grand Old Man, it meant a lot. “I consider myself fortunate to be associated with the medical center here.”

“Good. And I’ll say that we’re all delighted you decided to join us. You’re a capable man, Dr Metzger; your record is brilliant. Those of us who have watched you feel certain you’ll go far in medicine – farther, perhaps, than you might imagine.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Not at all. I’m merely stating facts. I knew your father during my residency, you know, and he was a splendid physician himself. So I’m pleased that you decided to take a position here at the Center. It’s good to learn the facilities are up to your expectations, and that you’re getting your lab set up to suit you.”

He gestured toward the sheaf of papers Geoff had carried with him. “I like the way you’ve drawn this together. I’d say it’s dead certain the grant will go through.”

“I’m counting on it, sir.”

Dr Thackeray brandished his cigar. “Oh, it will. It will. You’ve stated the scientific aspects of it beautifully – and now we’ll handle the political end of things. Politics, as you’ll learn, count for a great deal. A very great deal, Dr Metzger.”

“No doubt,” laughed Geoff drily.

It had been a good move, thought Metzger, pausing to look over his new lab facilities. A damn good move. He could make his name here at the Center.

It was a heady feeling to be in charge of his own research project – a major project at the medical center of considerable renown – and still a young man by his colleagues’ standards. But Geoffrey Metzger was inured to honors.

He was, after all, the Center’s prize catch – hotly contested for by any number of major institutions. Head of his class at St Johns and at Harvard Medical School, and he could have been one of the youngest men to finish, if he had not chosen the round-about course of a liberal arts education, a few sojourns in Europe, and a combined M.D.-Ph.D. (biochemistry) program at Harvard. Afterward he had taken his pick of the most prestigious internships and residencies, finishing as chief resident in one of the nation’s best hospital centers. Then a stint with the Public Health Service in the poverty belt – in effect voluntary, since his family connections were sufficient to keep him out of military service.

An uncle with a governorship, a brother doing Very Well in the vice-presidential ladder of a Very Big corporation, and a “good marriage”, socially. Another brother was becoming known in legal medicine, and his father-in-law was partner in a string of ENT clinics in Detroit. Medicine had called members of his family for several generations. Geoff had himself followed his father into internal medicine. His father, very influential in the A.M.A., had been supposedly slated for its top post at the time of his death from a coronary.

A good record, as Dr Thackeray had observed. And no reason why it should not continue to shine. Metzger’s previous research work – extending back to his undergraduate days and assuming considerable stature during his residency – had led to numerous publications and no little acclaim. Clearly he was a man who was going places, and the Center was quite proud when he accepted their extremely generous offer. They had given him a free hand in a superbly equipped lab in their newest research facility, with a position as attending physician on the medical staff. And they had made it plain that this was merely a start for him, that there shortly would be important vacancies in the hierarchy of the Center . . .

Yes, it had been a damn good move.

Geoff grimaced and crumpled his Styrofoam cup. And one of the first additions to his lab equipment was going to be a private coffee urn.

II

“Did you notice that ring Sid Lipton had on last night?” asked Gwen.

“What?” Geoff, a persistent headache reminding him of the cocktail party at Trelane’s the night before, was trying to watch the morning news.

“Sid had on a sort of signet ring,” Gwen persisted. “Did you notice?”

“What? No, guess I didn’t.”

“It was an ornate silver ring with a large black onyx, I think. Into the onyx was set a kind of silver medallion or seal. It looked like a fraternity ring or something, but I couldn’t place it. I thought maybe you knew what it was.”

“Haven’t noticed it. Dr Lipton’s usually scrubbed for surgery whenever I see him – or always looks that way. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear anything on his hands but rubber gloves.”

“Want some more orange juice? Well, it was strange, because when I went to the girls’ room I passed Sid and Brice Thackeray in the hall, and Brice seemed like he was upset or something because Sid had on the ring.”

“Upset?”

“Well, maybe not. But they were talking over something in a not-very-casual manner, and it seemed like the ring was part of it. They stopped when I walked by and moved back in with the party. Did you see that slutty dress Tess Gilman had on?”

“Huh? No.”

“I’ll bet. A see-through blouse with her figure! You could see where her body stocking had padded inserts. And all you men ogling her like she was Raquel or somebody.”

“Gwen, I’m trying to listen to the news.”

Her face tightened. “Screw the news! You spend all day between the hospital and your damn lab, and when you do get home in time to talk, all you do is tell me about the hospital, tell me about your research. Damn it, you might at least try to pay a little attention to me over the breakfast table!”

“Sweetheart, they’re talking about Senator Hollister. He had a CVA last night and died. Forgive me if I find the death of the front-running liberal candidate for the next Presidential election of somewhat greater interest than your rehash of the highlights of another boring cocktail party!”

“Well I’m sorry if you find spending an evening with your wife boring!” she returned hotly.

The news moved on to the latest catastrophe in Pakistan.

“Gwen, honey, that wasn’t what I meant.”

“Well, goddamn it, Geoff! You don’t have to brush off everything I say. I put up with that miserable last year of Harvard, and then your internship in that filthy city – gone all the time, and home every other nightjust to sleep. Then that endless residency period, when everything was supposed to get better and you’d have more free time – but you didn’t, because you were doing work on your own in that lab. And Jesus, that miserable stay in the heartland of coal mines and grits while you played the medical missionary! And all this was supposed to lead up to when you could be the big man in the big medical complex, and name your own hours, and pay some attention to me for a change. Remember me? I’m your wife! Would you like to stuff me away with some of those damn virus cultures you’re forever playing with!”

I’ve heard this before, thought Geoff, knowing that he would hear it again. And she wasn’t being all that unfair, he also realized. But he was running late, and this lingering hangover left him in no mood to talk things out again.

“Honey, it happens that I’m at a crucial stage right now, and I really have to keep at it,” he offered by way of reconciliation. “Besides, we went to the cocktail party at Trelane’s last night, didn’t we? We were together then, weren’t we?”

“Big deal,” Gwen sniffled. “It was a lousy party. All you talked about was medicine.”

Geoff sighed, and glanced at his watch. “Look, I don’t want to make this sound too dramatic, but what I’m working on now could be big – I mean big. How big it might be I haven’t even told my colleagues – I don’t want to look like a fool if it doesn’t work out. But, honey, I think it is going to work out, and if it does, I’ll have made a breakthrough like no one since . . . Well, it will be a breakthrough.”

“Swell! You mean you’ll have discovered a whole new way to implant zits on a monkey’s navel, or some other thrilling discovery that all the journals can argue about!” Gwen was not to be placated.

Giving it up, Geoff bent to kiss her. She turned her face, and he got a mouthful of brown curls. “Baby, it really could be big. If it is, well, things could get a whole lot different for us in a hurry.”

“I’ll take any change – the sooner the better,” she murmured, raising her chin a little.

“Trust me, sweetheart. Hey look, you were fussing about your party dress last night. Why don’t you go out today and pick out a new one – something nice, whatever you like. OK?”

“Mmmff,” decided his wife, letting him kiss her cheek.

“What news today?”

Geoff glanced up from his stack of electron photomicrographs. “Oh, hi, Dave.” And to atone for the trace of irritation in his voice, he added, “Have a cup of coffee?”

“Muchos grassy-ass,” his visitor replied, turning to the large coffee urn Geoff had inveigled for his lab. He spooned in half a cupful of sugar and powdered cream subsititute, and raised the steaming container immediately to his lips – one of those whose mouths seem impervious to scalding temperatures.

“Don’t know why it is, but even when you brew your own, it ends up tasting rancid like all other hospital coffee,” Geoff commented, half covering his pile of photographs.

“Unh,” Dr Froneberger acceded. “Know what you mean – that’s why I gave up drinking it black. Rot your liver if you don’t cut it with powdered goo. I think it’s the water. Hospital water is shot full of chemicals, rays, gases, dead bugs. Very healthfully unhealthful.

“What you got there, Geoff?” he queried, moving over to the desk.

Reluctantly, Metzger surrendered the photomicrographs. Froneberger’s own lab was at the other end of the hall, and it would be impolitic to affront his neighbor. Still, he vaguely resented the frequent contacts that their proximity afforded. Not that Dave was any more than ordinarily obnoxious, but the other’s research with influenza viruses impinged closely enough on some areas of his own work to raise the touchy problem of professional jealousy.

“Unh,” Froneberger expounded, tapping a hairy finger across several of the photos. “Right here, buddy. I can see it too. You got that same twisted grouping along the nuclear membrane, and on these two you can definitely see the penetration. And you can make a good argument with this one that here’s the same grouping on the chromosome. Hey, this is good stuff you’re getting here, Geoff buddy.”

“I think I’m making some progress,” offered Metzger testily, rankled at the other’s appropriation of data he had spent countless hours working toward. It would never do for Froneberger to insinuate himself into this thing with matters such as they were.

“Where’s it leading you, buddy? Got anything backing this besides what the editors like to brush off as ‘artifacts of electron microscopy’?”

“I couldn’t say,” Geoff replied evasively. “I’m getting some new data off these labeled cultures that may lead somewhere.”

“May, and again may not, that’s the way it always is. I know the feeling, believe you me. Been a few times, buddy, when I damn near thought I . . . But, hell, maybe all the cherries will roll up for you this time, you never know. Looks impressive so far, my fran. Could be we’re hearing the Nobel boys sniffing outside the door.”

“I think that’s your telephone.”

“Shit, it is that. And my secretary’s on break. Better catch it. Chow!” He lumbered off.

“Damn!” Geoff breathed, resorting his photographs with fumbling touch.

III

“Too late for you to help him, eh?”

“How’s that?” Geoff looked up from his evening paper and turned toward the man who was seating himself opposite him. It was Ira Festung, who busily rearranged his cafeteria tray, smiling cheerfully as he smothered his hospital pot roast in catsup. He should have taken the paper back to the lab to finish reading, Geoff reflected. He had promised Gwen he would be home before too late, and he could lose half an hour trying to break away from the garrulous epidemiologist.

“I noticed you were reading the headlines about the Supreme Court Justice,” said Dr Festung, doing nothing to clarify his greeting.

“I was,” Geoff admitted, glancing again at the lead article, which told of Justice Freeport’s death from cancer that morning. “Freeportwas a good man. The second justice to die in the last few months, and both of them liberals. They’ll have a hard time replacing them – especially with the Administration we have right now.”

Festung snorted into his ice water. “Oh, they’ll probably find another couple Commies to fill their seats. Don’t see how you can seriously regret Freeport and Lloyd, after the stands those leftists took on socialized medicine. Sure it sounds great to be the bleeding-heart humanitarian, but tell me how much of this fancy research you’d be doing as a salaried pill-pusher. Hell, look at the disaster in Britain! Is that the kind of medical care you want to dish out to the public?”

If this got started again, Geoff knew he could plan to spend the whole evening in the hospital cafeteria. And afterward he’d have a sore throat, and his grey-haired colleagues would shake their heads condescendingly and despair of his political judgment.

“What did you mean by what you said when you sat down?” he asked instead, hoping to steer the epidemiologist away from another great debate.

“That?” Festung wiped catsup from his full lips.

Whiskers, and he’d look like President Taft, Metzger decided.

“Well, Freeport had multiple myeloma, and from what I hear, aren’t you about to come up with the long-sought breakthrough in cancer?” Festung’s watery eyes were suddenly keen.

Goddamn that sonofabitch Froneberger! Geoff fought to hold a poker face. Let word go around that the Boy Wonder thought he had a cure for cancer, and he’d be a laughingstock if this research didn’t pan out!

“Oh, is that the scuttlebutt these days?” He smiled carefully. “Well, I’m glad to hear somebody has even greater optimism for my project than I do. Maybe I ought to trade notes with him.”

“If we didn’t have rumors to play with, wouldn’t this medical center be a dull place to live,” Dr Festung pronounced.

Geoff laughed dutifully, although he had his own opinion of the back-stabbing gossip that filled so many conversations here.

“Waste of time trying to cure cancer anyway,” the epidemiologist continued. “Nature would only replace it with another scourge just as deadly, and then we’d have to begin all over again. Let it run its course and be done, I say.”

“Well, that’s your specialty,” Geoff said with a thin smile, uncertain how serious his companion meant to be taken.

“Common sense,” confided Festung. “Common sense and simple arithmetic – that’s all there is to epidemiology. Every Age has its deadly plague, far back as you care to trace it.

“The great plagues of the ancient world – leprosy, cholera, the Black Death. They all came and went, left millions dead before they were finished, and for most of them we can’t even say for certain what disease it may have been.”

“Those were primitive times,” Geoff shrugged. “Plagues were expected – and accepted. No medicine, and filthy living conditions. Naturally a plague would go unchecked – until it either killed all those who were susceptible, or something like the London Fire came along to cauterize the centers of contagion.”

“More often the plagues simply ran their course and vanished.” Dr Festung went on in a tone of dismissal. “Let’s take modern times, civilized countries, then – after your London Fire (actually it was a change of dominant species of rat) and the ebbing of the bubonic plague. Comes the Industrial Revolution to Europe, and with it strikes smallpox and then tuberculosis. A little later, and you get the picture in this country too. OK, you finally vaccinate against smallpox, but what about TB? Where did TB come from, anyway? Industrialization? No sir, because TB went on the wane at the height of industrialization. And why did it? Biggest killer of its day, and now it’s a rare disease. And you know medicine had damn little to do with its disappearance. Then influenza. Killed millions, and not just because medical conditions weren’t what we have now. Hell, we still can’t do much about the flu. Froneberger tells me his research indicates there are two or three wholly new influenza strains ‘born’ (if you will) each year – that we know about. Hell, we still aren’t really sure what strain was the great killer at the early part of the century. And talk about confusion, why, when you say ‘flu,’ you can mean anything from several bacteria to any number of viral strains and substrains.”

“Well, how about polio?” challenged Metzger, digging for a cigarette. Festung hated tobacco smoke.

“Polio? Exactly. Another killer plague that appeared from nowhere. Sure, this time we came up with a vaccine. But so we know where it went – where did polio come from, though? Each generation seems to have its nemesis. When I was your age, the big killer was stomach cancer. Like bad weather, we talked a lot about stomach cancer, but nothing much was ever done, and it faded into the background just the same. Instead, we had heart disease. Now there’s the number one killer for these many years – the reason for billions of government dollars doled out for research. And what have we really done about it? Dietary fads, a few ghoulish transplants, and a pile of Rube Goldberg gadgetry that can keep things pumping for a few extra years. Sum total: too close to nothing to bother carrying. But that’s all right too, because now heart disease is on the way out, and for now our great slayer of mankind is cancer.

“History and figures tell the story, young man. Cancer is here for the moment. And maybe all your research will do something aboutit, then more likely it won’t. But it doesn’t matter in the long run, because cancer will have its heyday and fade like its predecessors at the scythe handle, and then we’ll find something new to die of. Wonder what it’ll be.”

“Someone else’s worry that’s what it’ll be. I suppose, as they say, you got to die of something.” Geoff pushed his chair back from the table. “Meanwhile I’ll chase after today’s problems. And one of the most immediate concerns a scintillation counter run that ought to be gone through by now. See you, Ira.”

“Sure. Hey, how about leaving that paper, if you’re finished reading it.”

Dr Thackeray was waiting in the lab when Geoff returned. The Great Man was leaning over Metzger’s desk, idly looking through several days’ loose data and notes. A long white lab coat, stylishly ragged after the Center’s peculiar snobbery, covered his sparse frame. A little imagination and he could make a good Hallowe’en phantom, mused Geoff, watching the blue cigar smoke swirl about his hawklike face.

Geoff stepped into his office alcove. “Keeping late hours, Dr Thackeray?” The Chairman of Medicine has no first name within the walls of his domain.

“Good evening, Dr Metzger,” returned his superior. “No, not particularly. I wanted to see how things were going with you, and I felt it likely you’d still be here. Your devotion to your work has caused some comment – even among our staff. Most commendable, but I hope you aren’t working yourself into an early grave.”

“I’ll manage,” Geoff promised. “I feel like I’m really getting somewhere right now though, and I hate to let up.”

“Yes. I see you’ve made progress, Dr Metzger.” His eyes black in the sterile glare of the fluorescents, Dr Thackeray let his gaze gesture about the crowded laboratory. “Very significant progress in the year you’ve been with us here at the Center.”

Geoff framed his words with care. “I don’t like to put myself down as saying – even off the record – just how far what I’m doing here might lead, Dr Thackeray. You’ve seen what I’ve accomplished so far, read the preliminary reports. But in the last few months I’ve . . . well, made a few unexpected breakthroughs. I think I know what it will mean, but I want absolute evidence to substantiate my findings before I speculate openly with regard to what I’ve learned. Forgive me if this seems melodramatic, but I’ve no desire to be labeled a fool, nor would I care to bring derision upon the Center.”

“Again commendable, Dr Metzger. I appreciate your position, naturally. As you know, there’s been some speculation among the staff relating to your most recent work – enough that some of us can understand what you’re trying to lead up to.”

“I’m making no preliminary claims,” Geoff repeated. “Between the two of us, I feel certain of my ground. But too many over eager researchers have gone off half cocked and regretted it when their errors were immediately apparent to more careful workers.”

“To be sure!” Dr Thackeray turned his piercing eyes into Geoff s. “I truly admire your discretion. Untold damage might result from foolish disclosures at this point. I agree.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Not at all.” Dr Thackeray waved his hand. His expression darkened. “It’s because of the position you find yourself in right now that I’ve left these two papers on your desk.”

Surprised, Geoff noticed for the first time the two dull black binders waiting beside a tangle of data tapes. Their vinyl covers bore no title – then, on closer glance, he was aware of a tiny silver seal embossed on either spine.

“It required considerable effort to obtain those two copies,” Dr. Thackeray advised. “Needless to say, I’ll expect you to examine them with care – the data is confidential, of course – and return them to me when you’ve finished. Reading them is explanation enough for the present, so I’ll say no more for now.

“I think you’ll want to discuss your thoughts on this with me. How about tomorrow morning at 8:00? I think you will have read through them to your satisfaction by then.”

“Certainly,” agreed Metzger in bewilderment. “If you feel this is important to my project . . .”

“It’s extremely important, Dr Metzger, I assure you. Very well, then. We’ll talk this over at eight.”

With a bizarre sense of foreboding, Geoff took up the first of the black folders.

IV

Dr Thackeray’s secretary was not present when Metzger entered the Department of Medicine offices the following morning – his nerves jagged after a sleepless night. Since he knew he was expected, he knocked and entered the Chairman’s office. Sanctum sanctorum, soul of the Center, he thought with a tinge of hysteria.

“Dr Thackeray, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all night . . .” He halted, startled to find the Chairman of Surgery seated within.

“It’s all right, Dr Metzger,” pronounced Dr Thackeray. “Dr Lipton is a party to . . . this matter we have to discuss.”

Numbly Geoff dropped into the room’s vacant chair. The two older men faced him with carefully composed mien – eyes alert as birds of prey.

Geoff thumped a fist against the black vinyl folders in his lap. “God, it’s all here!” His eyes were feverish. “Everything I’ve done, all I’d hoped to establish – a number of aspects I’d never considered!”

Dr Thackeray nodded, eyes unblinking.

“Well, Christ, where did you get this? If you knew someone else was working in my field, why didn’t you tell me earlier? Hell, this is too important for professional jealousy. I’ll gladly share any of my data with these researchers. To hell with who gets official credit!”

His voice began to shake. “This research – this information! My god – it means a definite cure for almost every form of human cancer! Why, this delineates each etiological factor involved in cancer – pinpoints two definite stages where the causative agent can be destroyed, the disease process completely arrested! This research marks the triumph of medicine over leukemia, most of the systemic dysplasias – individual organ involvement will be virtually eradicated!”

“Quite true,” Dr Lipton agreed. His long surgeon’s fingers toyed with the silver-and-onyx ring he wore.

“Well, no more suspense, please! Whose work is this? Where’s it being done?” Geoff s excitement was undiminished by the coolness of the other two physicians.

“One paper was prepared from the work of Dr C. Johnson Taggart,” Dr Thackeray told him.

“Taggart? No wonder it’s . . . But Taggart died ten years ago – brain tumor! You mean they’ve taken this long to piece together his notes?”

“The other paper, as you’ve noticed, is considerably older. Most of it was the work of Sir David Aubrey,” Dr Thackeray concluded.

Geoff stared at them to determine whether they were playing some horribly sick joke. “Aubrey died at the turn of the century.”

“True again. But he was responsible for most of the pioneer work in this field,” Dr Lipton added with a tone of reproof.

The overweighted shelves of accumulated knowledge seemed to press down on Geoff s soul. A windowless room in the center of the complex, like a chamber of the vast heart of some monstrous entity. “I don’t understand,” he whispered in a choked voice. “Why hasn’t this information been used before now? Why were millions left to die?”

“Perhaps the world wasn’t ready for a cure to cancer,” Dr Thackeray replied.

“That’s . . . that’s insane! I don’t understand,” quavered Geoff, noticing now that Dr Thackeray wore a ring similar to Dr Lipton’s. There was a seal set into the onyx. He had seen it before. It was stamped on the spines of the black binders.

“You can understand,” Dr Thackeray was saying. “This will be strange – traumatic perhaps, at first. But think carefully. Would it be wise to circulate a total cure for cancer just now?”

“Are you serious? You can’t be! The lives, the suffering

“The price of power, Dr Metzger. The price of power – just as every empire is built upon the lives and suffering of the expendable.” Dr Lipton’s voice was pitiless as the edge of his scalpels, excising without rancour the organism’s defective tissue.

“Think of cancer in more rational terms,” Dr Thackeray went on. “Have you any conception of the money invested every day in cancer research, in treatment of cancer patients? It’s incalculable, I assure you. Do you think the medical profession can sacrifice this wealth, this enormous power, just for a humanitarian gesture?”

“But a physician’s role is to heal!” screamed Metzger, abstractly noting how thoroughly the endless shelves muffled sound.

“Of course. And he does heal,” put in Dr Lipton. “But where would a physician be if there were no sickness to be healed?”

They were mad, Geoff realized. Or he was. He had been overworking. This was a dream, a paranoid fantasy.

This knowledge made him calmer. He would follow this mad logic – at least until he could be certain with whom the insanity lay. “But some diseases are eradicated,” he protested.

“When they become expendable,” Dr Thackeray told him. “Some, of course, simply die out, or fall victim to nonmedical intervention. Others we announce a cure for – makes the profession look good. The world has restored faith in medicine, praises its practitioners, and pours more money into research. The prestige a physician enjoys in the community is an essential factor to us.”

Lipton’s frown furrowed into his close-cropped hair where it grew low on his brow. “And sometimes we slip up, and some fool announces a major cure without our awareness. Thank God, there’s less of that now with the disappearance of independent research. As it is, we’ve had some damn close calls – took a lot of work to discredit a few of these thoughtless meddlers.”

Geoff remembered some of them. And now he knew fear. Fear greater than his dread of insanity; fear that these men were all too sane. “I suppose something can happen to some of these researchers who might cause difficulty.”

“You make it sound like a line from a gangster movie, but yes,” Dr Thackeray acknowledged. “Quite a number of them die from some sudden illness, and the scientific community regrets that they left their brilliant promise unfulfilled.”

“It’s a way of avoiding other dilemmas as well, as I think you’ll follow me,” Dr Lipton growled. “Meddlers who become aware of our existence. Fools who would destroy the medical profession with Communistic laws and regulations, endanger the social structure with ruinous legislation.

“And don’t look shocked, young man. Think instead just what kind of doctor you might be right now, if some of these late and unlamented wild-eyed liberals could have done all they intended to this country and to the medical profession.”

“Murder . . .” breathed Geoff weakly.

“Not actually,” Dr Thackeray broke in. “After all, as physicians we have to see human society as a living organism. The social organism is subject to disease just like any other entity. To be trite, it isn’t murder to excise a cancerous growth. Regulation treatment – sometimes drastic treatment – is essential if the organism is not to perish. This is the rationale behind all forms of government; the alternative is chaos. I think you’ll agree that an educated elite is best suited to direct the social destiny of us all. After all, an epithelial cell is scarcely suited to handle the functions of a nerve cell. It functions smoothly, dies when its time comes – all because the brain, of which it has no conception, directs its course. How else would you have it?”

“You can’t suppress medical knowledge indefinitely,” Geoff returned defiantly. “Someday someone will eradicate cancer. They were aware of its etiology as far back as Aubrey—”

“Certainly.”

“In fact, it’s amazing that Aubrey understood cancer so thoroughly – considering the relatively crude apparatus of the day.”

Dr Thackeray smiled. “Ah, but we’ve talked earlier about the possibility of what I believe you termed ‘recondite scientific knowledge.’ And besides, Aubrey had several advantages over moderns as to the matter of his starting point.”

Horror was damp on Metzger’s face. The air was stifling, charged with hideous revelation. “You said he was a pioneer. . . .”

“Yes,” Lipton rumbled impatiently. “A pioneer in the development of the disease process.”

“Oh my god,” whispered Geoff. “Oh my god!”

“I know this is a great deal to comprehend,” Dr Thackeray offered sympathetically. “But use your intelligence. To have significant power, a physician must have an essential role – and what is more compelling than the power of life and death? If there were no diseases, there would be no need for physicians. Therefore at certain times throughout history it has been necessary to develop and introduce to the general population new forms of disease.”

“But accidental deaths – traffic accidents . . .” Geoff countered, striving to follow his resolve to argue the situation by their own insane reasoning.

Dr Lipton laughed shortly. “If you only knew half our efforts toward keeping cars and highways unsafe! Or the medications we release for the public to abuse. Or the chemical additives we’ve developed . . .”

“Who? Who are you?” His nerve was going to shatter in another instant. This dispassionate, insane . . .

“There are a number of us,” Dr Thackeray announced. “A small, highly select order of medicine’s elite. An ancient order, I might point out. After all, the art of medicine is as old as human suffering, is it not?

“And of course, our order has grown in power with the passage of time. Today, our society is custodian of an astonishing body of medical and scientific knowledge; our research facilities are the best in the world. We have a certain hierarchy – democratically established, of course – to oversee our operations, direct the use of our wealth, to make those decisions vital to maintaining the order’s power and security.

“And naturally you can see why we’ve been so interested in you, Dr Metzger.”

Under their relentless stare, Geoff struggled desperately to maintain exterior calm, while underneath his mind grappled with ideas too nightmarish for conception. “What do you want from me?” he grated, dreading the answer.

“Come now, young man,” Dr Thackeray spoke reassuringly. “This isn’t a high tribunal. We wish to bestow a great honor upon you – an honor reserved for only those most worthy. We want you to join in our order.”

“This is insane, of course,” Geoff murmured without conviction. “You want me to become part of a society of inhuman despots? God! This is the most debased treachery to mankind that any mind could ever conceive!”

“It will take a certain period for your thinking to adjust to this new awareness,” Dr Lipton interceded with some rancour. “It might change matters if you knew your father was one of us.”

“I can’t believe that!” But from the dim recesses of his memory came the phantom image of a ring he once saw his father wear – a black onyx ring, set with a peculiar signet.

“True, nonetheless,” Dr Thackeray said. “I knew him well. His untimely death was a great setback to us.”

“So ‘untimely death’ can even strike your council of petty gods!”

“There are occasional power struggles within our Dr Lipton began. He was silenced by a glare from Dr Thackeray.

“Naturally we protect ourselves from our own, ah, methods,” Dr Thackeray proceeded. “As a member of our order, you will have access to medical techniques beyond the dream of those outside. Only rarely does something untoward occur.”

“Why did you pick me?”

“That should be obvious. It was essential to stop your present line of research, certainly. But that could have been a simple matter. No, we’ve had our attention on you for a great while. As I say, your father was high in our order. Your family connections are invaluable. Your own contributions to medicine would have singled you out, even had your background been quite plebeian. You’re a brilliant man, Dr Metzger. It would be difficult to postulate a candidate better qualified for membership in our order.”

“I suppose I’m immensely flattered.”

“You should be,” the surgeon growled.

“And you shall be,” Dr Thackeray assured him. “You will naturally want a certain length of time to consider. This is quite understandably a devastating blow to your past conceptions and ideals. We are pleased to offer you time to consider, to reevaluate your position in light of this new awareness. You’re an intelligent man, Dr Metzger. I feel certain your decision will be the rational one – once you’ve had time to reconsider your former prejudices and misconceptions.”

“Suppose I decide to tell the world of your unspeakable conspiracy?”

“Who would ever believe you?”

“It’s not that unusual for an overwrought researcher to suffer a nervous collapse,” Dr Lipton told him. “In such cases, immediate institutional treatment is available. We become very sympathetic, and work very hard to help our stricken fellow – but I’m afraid our cure ratio is somewhat grim.”

Geoff remembered, and fear tightened a chill coil around his heart. “I have to think,” he muttered, his thoughts searching frantically for some release to this nightmare. “God, I have to think!”

“Of course.” Dr Thackeray’s smile was one of paternal sympathy. “We’ll wait for your decision.”

Not very many minutes after Geoff Metzger had dazedly fled Dr Thackeray’s office, a section of the book-lined wall pivoted open. The two noted physicians looked expectantly to the heavy-set man who waited within the hidden niche.

“Well, Dr Royce?”

The eminent psychiatrist grimly studied the monitoring devices focused on the room’s vacant chair.

“No,” he pronounced.

V

By habit Geoff stumbled back to his lab. A wounded beast returns to his lair, he thought morbidly.

None of his lab workers had appeared. No doubt they had been instructed to take a day off. His phone worked – at least there was a dial tone. But then they couldn’t disconnect every phone in the Center. Besides, who could he tell? Gwen? She might believe him. More likely she’d call a psychiatrist at the first discreet moment. And even without believing him, her knowledge would endanger her life as well.

It was monstrous. Surrounded by a sterile labyrinth of tile and cinderblock and stainless steel, shelves of gleaming lab equipment, banks of humming research apparatus – watchful in the dead white glare of the fluorescents . . . God, he’d never realized how sinister a research lab could be. Suddenly he felt like some ancient sorcerer, surrounded by the abhorrent paraphernalia of his evil delvings – a sorcerer who had suddenly succeeded with his conjurations, who now held the bleak knowledge of what demonic powers had claimed his soul.

To become a partner in this inhuman conspiracy was unthinkable. Perhaps its arrogant, ruthless rationality would appeal to certain of his colleagues. But never to him. He could never endure the knowledge of so monstrous a betrayal. He would not become traitor to mankind.

The alternative? Death, almost certainly. Countless others had died for suspecting, for so much as entertaining ideas which might lead to exposing this secret order. He knew. They would show him no mercy. What chance did one man have against a hidden society that had held remorseless power for centuries?

There was a slim chance. His only chance. He might pretend to aquiesce. He could agree to join them in their dread order. Of course, they would suspect; he would be carefully watched. But in time they would accept him. For such enormous stakes he could afford to bide his time, wait patiently for years perhaps. During that period he could plan, build up unassailable evidence, learn their names – lay preparations for the day when he might expose their dark treason to the unsuspecting world . . .

“Hey, buddy, you look gloomy. Wife troubles, I bet. They don’t go for their man spending all his time with the test tubes, I should know. How about some coffee?” Dave Froneberger was grinning at him, already fiddling with the urn.

Geoff blinked at him dumbly. After the ordeal of these last few hours, Froneberger with his insinuating banalities and petty gossip seemed almost an ally. Perhaps he could be one.

“Thanks, Dave,” he muttered, accepting the Styrofoam cup. He was too shaken even to feel his customary disgust with the bitter coffee. Yes, Froneberger with his prying interest in his research might be an ally. At least he could be one other party to this new cancer data. They couldn’t murder and discredit the entire Center staff.

“You know, Dave,” Geoff began. “I’m glad you dropped by just now. It strikes me that your own research is similar to mine in enough aspects that you might have some fresh insight into some problems I’ve run into. If you’d care to take time, I’d like to go over some of my notes with you, and see what you think.”

“I don’t think you’ll have time,” smiled Froneberger. He reached for Geoff s empty coffee cup, dropped it into a pocket of his lab coat.

“What do you mean?” asked Geoff thickly, coughing suddenly. There was pain deep, deep in his throat. Another racking cough filled his mouth with blood.

And he knew what Froneberger meant.