A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  Corpsmen, clad in contagion-free gowns, were setting up the steri-banks. Nurses were briskly inserting needles into the veins of the cubital fossa, sterilizing their blood, adding amino acids to the nutrient to speed recovery.

  He stopped by one of the bunks. “When did you first get sick?”

  The spaceman’s voice was a harsh croak. “About six weeks out of Halseps. Nothing but processed food to eat. Air went foul. Too much work . . . holding the ship together. No medicines . . . air ducts corroded through . . . no circulation—” The voice trailed off into sleep.

  It was the typical story of a tramp freighter. He continued with his ward rounds: offered the cheering confidence of an early recovery to the patients; cautioned corpsmen against carelessness.

  Before he was through, a messenger came to him with a note from Thurman: “Nordheimer has just put through a call to the Chancellor’s Office protesting his needless delay.”

  Dave swore softly, balled the note, dropped it in the flame chute of a decontagion basket. He turned to Dr. Nissen: “Conduct the Guard Office, tell them what we have here. They may want to hold the captain for improper conduct. When the skins are clean, call the Finance Division of the Colonial Office so they can arrange an auction for the skins. I’m going out to check the ship.”

  The interior of the Canaberra was a rotten, rusted mess. Eroded hull plates allowed air seepage so the atmosphere generators were constantly overloaded. In consequence of the lowered oxygen tension the men had suffered debilitating, chronic anoxemia. Air ducts were fouled so that circulation of even vitiated air was impossible. The sewage disposal plant had broken down and filthy sludge filled the under decks.

  He shuddered to think of the social conditions at the periphery of man’s empire. The crew’s quarters were a stifling miasma; it was a wonder any of them lived to make Earth. The holds of the ship were filled with untreated nalyor skins, which in spite of their filthy condition radiated the glowing platinum beauty which made them the most beautiful pelt ever seen in the astrosphere.

  Dave summoned Blackbern. “I’m condemning your ship. It will be taken to the hulk yard and broken up. You may protest this action before the Domain Board. This condemnation is for the public.” He ignored the vituperative response.

  The ground crew attached cables to the overtop shackles and tugs lifted the freighter from the cradle.

  Instantly, it seemed, the sleek lines of the Starry Maid appeared over the cradling table. Its polished hull gleamed like living flame.

  The landing crew grabbed anchoring lines, passed terminal hooks through the ground eyelets. Winches in the landing compartments of the yacht turned, tightening the lines, and as power was released from the gravity plates the ship fell slowly into the bassinet.

  The landing lock opened and two figures came down the ramp.

  Dave blinked his eyes.

  Never had he seen such space armor. The helmets were domes of jet; the wearer could see out through the uni-transparent metal but he couldn’t see within the cover. A red cross of inlaid rubies flamed brilliantly on the chest of one of the figures. A blaze of diamonds monogramed J. N. flickered on the left breast of the other armored figure. Scrolls of gold foamed over the arms and shoulders of the armor.

  “I’m Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer, Senior Surgeon of Nordheimer & Company and Medical Officer of the yacht—”

  “Which of you is which?” Dave looked from one dome to the other. How in the name of deep space could they expect him to know which of the slender figures was speaking?

  The figure with the jeweled medical cross stepped forward. “I wish to protest our long delay. A hulk like that freighter should not be seen ahead of Mr. Nordheimer. I want you to bring up litters and remove our patients at once.”

  Dave listened to the contentious voice with amused incredulity. “Look, Doc,” he said after a long pause, “this is Exotic Disease Control. If you think you have something serious enough for isolation, then it must be serious enough to warrant potential quarantine of the entire ship. Suppose we see the patients first.”

  Dave walked up the ramp. As the panels closed the diamond-monogramed figure disappeared into another compartment. Dave watched curiously as the other figure stepped into a metal frame which unhinged the armor. At the sight of its ornate, padded interior he wondered with a perverse sense of humor if the motors of the suit weren’t gold-plated and the air ducts lined with platinum.

  “Whatcha got?” he asked after introducing himself.

  Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer’s arrogant face puckered into a haughty frown. “Now really. I don’t know. I’m not a planetary epidemiologist. That’s your field.”

  “What’re their symptoms?”

  “It’s a loathsome thing; changes their personality.” Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer delicately touched the waves of his beautiful blond hair. “I’ll tell you about them as we go to their quarters.”

  He led the way through corridors tesselated with fabulously beautiful paneling, over carpeting as soft as rubberoid foam. Intricately engraved doors opened at their approach, whispered softly as they closed behind them.

  “It had an insidious onset. They became weak; at first we thought it sheer laziness, so many spacemen are, you see. It’s a big problem on many of our outer nuclei freighters. You’d be surprised at all the difficulty our captains have with the bums. I have an entire department just—”

  “Never mind the economics of your job,” Dave cut in sharply, “how about your patients now?”

  Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer turned, stared insolently at Dave. “The malaise I was speaking of appeared like laziness. I insisted the captain work them harder. I realized they were ill with some strange malady when they started developing a rather alarming glossitis. Their mouths and tongues were inflamed; dysphagia was quite pronounced. They are now having difficulty in even swallowing water. Then their skins started turning that loathsome green color. I knew it was serious and of course isolated them at once; had a special air filter rigged, it’s really quite a work of engineering art. I’m thinking of writing a paper on it for publication in the Journal of Spatial Medicine.”

  “What? The air filter or the men’s illness?” Dave did not even try to hide the derision in his voice.

  Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer ignored the scom in Dave’s voice. “Their hair got brittle and started falling out and their nails became ridged. As you will see they are wasting rapidly from a profound toxemia. We must have them off at once. I can assure you none of us have become infected.”

  They passed through the crew’s quarters, stopped abruptly at its welded door. Some spacemen wheeled up a portable lock, started fastening it to the paneling.

  “How’ve you been feeding these men?” Dave wondered.

  “I put a corpsman in with them, gave them processed food. Of course I haven’t gone in there. I couldn’t risk infecting Mr. Nordheimer or Janith with anything.”

  Dave wheeled in the yacht’s diagnostic equipment; exquisite medical instruments which made him writhe with professional envy.

  The warm odor of congestion, like an unaired gymnasium, filled his nostrils. The bunk rooms were packed to the ceiling with sweating, miserable, palpably ill men.

  He examined their yellow-green skin carefully; looked long at their reddened, swollen tongues. All of them were afflicted with the same type of disease. He examined blood under the bacterioscope. No organism caused their illness; the toxemia came from the waste of their own bodies. They were weak from sheer anemia. He raised his head from the hemiglobinometer, dark fury in his eyes.

  Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer was leaning against the bulkhead, oblivious to the hostile stares of the men. “Well? What do they have, Munroe?” he asked indifferently.

  “Chlorosis! Simple spatial anemia. Due to lack of protein in their diet.”

  “That’s what I told him,” a gray-haired spaceman muttered angrily. “Processed food is all they gave that bunch. We regulars ate good, them got nothing.”

  Dr. Mortime
r J. Mortimer straightened abruptly. “You don’t certainly expect them to eat like Mr. Nordheimer or the officers.”

  “By deep space,” the spaceman growled, “they should be fed something besides bread and vitamin tablets, even if they are working their way back to Earth.” He looked at Dave. “And we could have a doctor on this ship, too.”

  Dave knew the spaceman’s knowledge of hematology had not been learned from textbooks. It had been learned the hard way; from dietary experience in deep, black space. If Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer had not been so indifferent to the health of the crew, he would have insisted that they be fed a more adequate diet; aborted the illness before it ever started. He recalled what Dr. Russell had said about the moronic mind of the Starry Maid’s medical officer.

  “I want to speak to the owner,” Dave said.

  “I hardly believe Mr. Nordheimer would care to speak to you,” Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer said rudely. “After all, you know he just doesn’t see anybody.”

  “I’m not just anybody.” Dave’s eyes narrowed angrily. “I’m speaking for the public. I insist on seeing him.”

  “The public,” Mortimer laughed scornfully. “Mr. Nordheimer is not interested in the public—”

  “But I am,” Dave broke in, fury in his voice. “I’ll see him if I have to tear these bulkheads down with my bare hands.”

  Dr. Mortimer stepped back at the sight of Dave’s icy, angry face. He darted a quick look at the smirking spacemen. “You public employees certainly have a hypertrophied sense of responsibility.” He tittered self-consciously at his clinical analysis. “Very well, I’ll take you to see Mr. Nordheimer, but mind you don’t expect a kind reception.” There was condescending mockery in his voice. “At least you’ll see the grand salon and that is more than most people ever do.”

  Dave followed the slender doctor to the grand salon of the ship. He stopped abruptly as he stepped in. Eyes widened in unashamed, breathless wonder. Never had he seen such an impressive sight.

  He was looking at the Macro-Mafintic Falls of Zaragahn, Sirius’ great planet. He recognized it from teleposters. Now he was looking at its captured reality. It was the most magnificent sight he had ever seen; unutterably breath-taking in its majestic beauty.

  Mountains, glittering with snow, vanished into an illusory horizon, water from a mighty river burst forth to fall for twenty-five thousand meters into a narrow, tortuous canyon. But three-quarters of the way down, up-sweeping wind caught the watery shaft, tore it into mist, whirled it cyclonically upwards. Electrostatic charges formed on the droplets to be neutralized by vivid electric discharges, and through the mist jagged lightning flashed ceaselessly and the deep-throated rumble of thunder echoed in the mountains.

  Dave had heard the sight of the Falls rivaled the splendor of Sirius’ incredible, tumultuous prominences. He could believe that now.

  Man lacked the multiple perceptive ability so necessary to appreciate the tremendous forces in a solar storm. His sensual comprehension could not grasp and hold for cerebration the magnitude of the incredible, flaming vortices that writhed and twisted millions of miles above Sirius’ churning surface.

  The Macro-Mafintic Falls can be adequately appreciated for all its majestic worth. It captures perception through senses that are instinctively familiar. Man has crawled on the slopes of mountains; felt the vibrating wonder of their creation. He has seen clouds form, felt the coolness of their mist; been thrilled by their rain. He has seen and felt and feared the lightning; trembled with wonder at the crack of thunder. He has built dams; listened with smug satisfaction as a tamed river roared its spilling protest. This, then, was but the infinite magnification of an age-old experience.

  He looked on in wonder. The Falls seemed to strike on a churning violet cloud that billowed and swirled over a foundation of lightning before it fell into the incredible gorge.

  The room was built on a promontory jutting out over a wide, deep chasm. A fireplace, burning golden apple wood, crackled behind him and the air was spicy with the tangy, piny freshness of high mountains.

  Dave walked to the rail, looked up at the snow-capped peaks. Impossible to believe this sublime scene was but the three-dimensional art of a photographer. It was too dynamic. The flashing lightning, the rumble of thunder, the roar of the Falls muted by distance was too real.

  It required actual mental effort for him to realize he was not standing on a real rock on Zaragahn looking at the Falls; instead he was in the grand salon of a sumptuous yacht, now resting in the landing cradle of Exotic Disease Control.

  “Are you sight-seeing,” an irritable voice snapped, “or did you want to see me?”

  Dave whirled and in a flash was conscious of Mortimer’s condescending sneer and the thin, vulture face of Mr. Nordheimer regarding him with cynical, beady black eyes.

  “I’ve just examined your crewmen,” Dave announced flatly.

  “That’s kind of you,” rasped Nordheimer, “now take them off so we can Earth. I’ve waited here long enough.”

  Dave faced the fabulously wealthy, almost omnipotent Nordheimer with the slightest trickle of fear welling within him. Stories of his greedy love of power had seeped into the smallest colonies of Earth’s empire.

  He had once hurled the might of his private spatial force on a planet because it failed to recognize his economic power. It was whispered that on the planets of the periphery he was worshiped as a god, a devil, an emperor; that one planet was his arsenal of empire, devoted exclusively to the manufacture of weapons to keep him in power. That some day he intended to be the master of the world.

  “No!” Dave said, “their illness is not infectious; they do not need to be removed.”

  There was a tormenting moment of intense nervous tension in the room. Lightning from the Falls tinted the walls vivid violet and the roll of thunder, like an oncoming storm, was a menacing rumble.

  Nordheimer settled deeply into a low, spun-metal divan. Corrugated lids closed slowly over his venomous eyes. A cynical smile curled at the corners of his thin, bloodless lips. “My doctor said their illness was infectious; that is enough for me. I tell you now. Take those men off and at once. That is an order.”

  “No!” Dave’s voice was curtly emphatic. “Your men suffered from protein starvation; they became anemic with a disease as old as Earthly immigration Chlorosis. You picked those men from some planet, brought them back here to save yourself the cost of a regular crew. I will inform the Immigration officers of this and they will remove and treat your men.”

  Nordheimer’s brows met in a satanic V. His thin, irritable face reddened ominously. “You infer my doctor was wrong.”

  “Your doctor,” Dave answered, turning to Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer, “is an incompetent moron.”

  “You can’t say that about me.” Mortimer started forward.

  “Shut up!” Nordheimer growled. “He’s probably right.” He looked up at Dave, slowly, without moving his eyes from those of the doctor, reached out for a platinum-trimmed glass. A clawlike hand brought the glass to his mouth, he sipped slowly, hypnotic eyes looking steadily into Dr. Munroe’s. “Do you refuse to take those men off this ship?” The glass was held close to his mouth.

  “I do,” Dave said steadily. “Exotic Disease Control is run for the public; not for the whims of privileged groups.”

  “The public.” Nordheimer snorted. “Who cares about them anyway—”

  “The Public Health Service,” Dave retorted angrily. Nordheimer set the glass down, pulled a wallet from his pocket, extracted a thick sheaf of hundred stellar notes. “Take this and buy yourself a present. I’ll—”

  Dave started towards the door. “I will release you at once, Immigration will expect you in thirty minutes.”

  “Come back here.” Nordheimer whirled to Mortimer. “Summon the captain.”

  “What’s the matter, Father; found something you can’t buy?” They turned at the throaty voice. Janith Nordheimer was standing in an open panel. Dave recognized her from the numer
ous picture magazines. She stepped out, walking the length of the compartment with a lazy, free stride. Viewing her this way, Dave could appreciate the groomed perfection she represented. She sauntered to a taboret, touched a pedal on the tesselated deck with the toe of a diamond-encrusted shoe.

  “Hate that view,” she said as multiple panels formed to screen the view of the Falls. She rested her elbows on the back of a chair, regarded Dave, an insolent expression in her dark, sophisticated eyes.

  “Protecting the insensate mob, watching the helpless public; you must have studied the manual of the Juvenile Planeteers. I understand they do things like good deeds and such.”

  Mortimer snickered, clapping his hands together happily. “Munroe,” he giggled. “Munroe the Noble.”

  The captain of the yacht came in at that moment. “You sent for me, sir?”

  “Yeah.” Nordheimer jerked his head at Dave. “This bacteria engineer orders me, me to take my ship over to Immigration and have them put those patients in bed and I would have to pay for that, besides having all of the hoi polloi on Earth knowing where I’d been.”

  “Yes, sir,” the captain said deferentially. “You will remember, sir, I advised you that landing at Exotic Disease Control, unless we had some really infectious disease, was dangerous—”

  “Who cares about it being dangerous,” Nordheimer sneered. “Toss this germ mechanic—”

  “Germ mechanic.” Dr. Mortimer discharged a bellow of laughter. “That’s a good one, yes sir, that’s really a good one, germ mechanic. I’ll have to remember that one—”

  “Shut up when I’m talking,” Nordheimer rumbled. He turned back to the captain. “Toss him off the ship, and I don’t bother whether he has armor or not—”

  “We’re too close to Earth for that now, sir,” the captain interposed cautiously. “All he has to do is to raise his hand, speak into his wrist communicator and we’d be blasted by the Guard before we could raise the Chancellor’s Office.”