“Styles change,” Jeff said, aware that she did not want to discuss their material any more.
There was a knock at the door. “Missus Channing, Doctor Taji, ten minutes, please.”
“I guess we’d better get out there.” Irene swallowed. “Have I eaten off all my lipstick? That make-up lady will be furious.”
“You look beautiful,” said Dale, rising and helping her to her feet.
“You say that at seven in the morning; you’re no judge,” she teased, doing her best to smile through her nervousness.
“I think you look fine,” said Jeff. “I keep looking to see if there’s a grease spot on my tie.”
“You’re fine,” said Irene, appreciating his effort to put them both at ease.
Dale opened the door and held it for them. “Be careful of General Warren. He’s known to be a sneaky bastard.”
“Gee, thanks,” said Irene as she kissed him on the cheek.
“Good luck. I’ll be waiting,” said Dale, waiting in the open dressing room door as Jeff and Irene walked down the hall.
“Is Steve handling things okay?” Irene asked Jeff in an undervoice as they went down the stairs to the next level where the studio was located.
“He’s doing as well as any of them. He manages pretty well most of the time, but he has bad days. They all do. Ever since their psychiatrist died, they’ve all been depressed and withdrawn. They aren’t doing very well with the new shrink. Be glad he isn’t like Harold Porter—”
“Is that the one they just found?” Irene asked.
“That’s the one,” said Jeff. They were almost at the bottom of the stairs. “He’s run away twice. We’ve been able to find him and bring him back fairly quickly both times, but it doesn’t look like he’s going to take to this isolated living very well.”
“Poor kid,” she said. “The other parents?”
“Two survivors other than you: Susan Ross and Brandon Harmmon. Neither of them had more than the first stages of the disease. Harmmon is type-O. Susan Ross is doing Public Benefit for those with type-A blood.”
Irene was about to say something, but the assistant producer came up to them and their conversation ended.
The studio was enormous. The Plain Talking set occupied only a fraction of its space. The moderator, Stewart Thayer, divided his time between this program and his professorial post at Haverford. He was already seated at the oval table where his interviews took place; he was wearing a tweed jacket in spite of the heat of the day, and his black skin glistened under the lights.
“Doctor Taji,” he said, taking Jeff’s hand. “And Missus Channing. I’m very glad you can be here, especially in the wake of the President’s speech.”
They both made neutral, cordial noises and sat down at the places Thayer indicated.
General Barton Lewis Warren arrived five minutes later, his uniform immaculate, his greying hair perfectly in place, the lenses of his glasses bright as an insect’s eye. He acknowledged each introduction with a single nod and he sat down as if his chair were covered in uncooked eggs. “I want you to know, Professor Thayer, that there are areas of national security that I am not at liberty to discuss.”
“Oh?” said Thayer with deceptive calm.
“I am sorry to inconvenience you and your guests. If there are matters that they ought not to discuss, I will have to ask them to desist.” He was used to being obeyed and so did not notice the expression in Irene’s eyes or the lift to Thayer’s brows. “I’m sure you understand,” he said, looking around the table.
“Better than you think,” said Stewart Thayer, handing a letter to the General. “We’re two minutes to air time. I suggest you familiarize yourself with the contents of the letter. Doctor Taji has a duplicate copy with him.”
It was on Presidential stationery, embossed with the Great Seal of the United States and was handwritten: it specifically and completely removed all security restrictions from any information directly or indirectly related to Taji’s Syndrome. It was signed by the man who had written it, Franklin Hunter, and was countersigned by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“I . . . I should have been informed of this,” General Warren stated, his handsome face darkening.
“There wasn’t time,” said Thayer. “Your mike, General. We’re just about on.” He sat down and checked the papers on the table in front of him.
General Warren was still trying to argue while the assistant producer attached the button mike to his lapel and stepped out of camera range.
“Good evening; I am Stewart Thayer and this is Plain Talking.” For the next three minutes, he succinctly recapped the known information and history of the last ten months regarding the appearance and spread of TS. “What has added to the mystery, and what we are concerned with tonight, is the fate of those who have survived TS. Current statistics suggest that twelve to fourteen percent of those who catch TS survive it, yet of those fortunate few, most have disappeared.” He let this statement sink in. “To address this question, we have with us this evening Doctor Jeff Taji, of the National Center for Disease Control, Environmental Division. Doctor Taji was the first to isolate and describe the syndrome that bears his name, and was part of the team that developed the current treatments for TS.”
As the camera focused on him, Jeff lowered his head.
“With him is one of the survivors of TS, Missus Irene Channing of Dallas, Texas. Missus Channing is also the mother of one of the known carriers of TS. Welcome to Plain Talking, Missus Channing.”
“Doctor Thayer,” she said, though she was watching the General as she said it.
“And last, General Barton Warren. General Warren is with the Anny Counterespionage Task Force.”
“Professor Thayer,” he said, sounding as if there were crumbs caught in his throat.
“Tell me,” Thayer said, looking directly at Irene, “how does it feel to have survived TS?”
“Lucky,” she said at once. She gave a short description of her illness. “I didn’t think I’d get well. I thought anyone who got TS died. But it didn’t turn out that way. Eventually I began to get better.”
“What about side effects?” Thayer was being deliberately provocative, both to Irene and General Warren.
“Well, apparently the changes that TS creates in brain chemistry continue even after recovery, and it results in . . . in emerging abilities that no one fully understands yet.” She looked over at Jeff. “It seems that those who survive TS become capable of moving things . . . objects, with the power of thought.”
“Psychokinesis,” said Thayer helpfully.
“Yes.”
“And you can do this?” He was determined to drive his point home.
“Yes. I haven’t much control over it, and when I do it, it leaves me exhausted. It’s easier to pick up the front end of a truck with your hands than a dish towel with your mind.” She tried not to look at General Warren but she could feel his irate disapproval across the table.
“Doctor Taji,” Thayer said, turning his attention to Jeff, “you’ve been closely identified with this disease since its first appearance last fall. How do you account for this?”
“Frankly, Professor Thayer, I don’t. We know very little about TS. It’s been a puzzle every step of the way.”
“Why is that?” Thayer all but pounced on the question.
“Speculation at this stage might be irresponsible,” the General interrupted.
“But there has been so much speculation already, General,” Thayer said, silencing his infuriated guest. “Please, Doctor.”
“The reason we know so little about TS,” Jeff said, speaking with care, “is that we have every reason to believe that we are dealing with a disease that is the result of genetic manipulation. Through some accident—we haven’t been able to determine what accident—
the altered genetic material was introduced into the carriers before they were born.”
“Deliberately?” Thayer asked with a quick glance at General Warren that stopped his objection before it was spoken.
“Probably not,” said Jeff. “I did say accident. These carriers then became . . . ‘active’ might be the best word, when they reached puberty, This is a highly communicable disease, and once it started . . . well, we all know what happened.”
General Warren could contain himself no longer. “If you are suggesting that the Army or any branch of the Armed Forces had anything to do with—”
“We’re not suggesting that,” Thayer soothed. “However, you will admit, General—won’t you—that various branches of the Armed Forces were and are actively involved in genetic research.”
“That’s—” He was about to claim security, but Thayer touched the President’s letter which was on the table.
“General?” Thayer said.
“Certain amounts of such research have been undertaken,” he said stiffly.
“Is such research continuing?” Thayer asked.
“I am not aware of any specific projects,” he evaded.
“But you do know it hasn’t been discontinued,” Thayer persisted.
“You could say that.” General Warren glowered at the letter. “It would be irresponsible for me to say more at this time.”
“Would it?” Thayer had a way of smiling that was not at all pleasant. “Missus Channing, in the course of your illness, how many tests were made on you?”
“You mean while I was in quarantine?” she asked. “I really don’t know. I had a high fever and I was very disoriented. As you probably know, many people with TS suffer from hallucinations during the . . . terminal phase.”
Jeff supplied the answer. “Since Missus Channing had signed a Public Benefit contract, over one hundred thirty different tests were carried out on her before she began to improve. Once the PK was confirmed, another sixty-seven were administered before she left quarantine.”
“That’s a lot of testing,” said Thayer. “And after you left quarantine, what then?”
Irene felt suddenly very exposed, almost shamed. She stared down at the polished surface of the table. “I was . . . I was transferred to a private hospital for study and recuperation.”
“And while you were there, what happened?” Thayer had that eager, predatory look to him now.
“Well, I was approached by two agents from the ESA, the Executive Security Agency, asking me to volunteer for their work. When I refused, they placed agents in the hospital to keep an eye on me. I have documentation on this,” she went on, looking the General directly in the eye.
“There are copies on file with the producers of this program,” Thayer added.
“The ESA is not part of my service,” General Warren said stiffly.
“Tell me, Missus Channing,” Thayer went on as if General Warren had not spoken, “did the agents placed in the hospital make any attempt to interfere with you?”
“While I was there, no; once I left it was another matter.” She glanced at Jeff. “We have records to support this; I’m not rambling and I’m not making it up. When I left the hospital, I took certain prescription drugs that supposedly were the same as the ones I had been given in the hospital. I was still in my personal physician’s care”—that was one way to describe her time at the cabin with Dale—“and it was through him that we discovered that substitutions had been made at the hospital. The investigation that followed revealed that the ESA agents were responsible for the substitutions.”
“If you had not been under your personal physician’s care, what would have happened if you’d taken those drugs?” Thayer asked, leaning forward.
“I don’t know. But at the least I would have been semiconscious and hallucinating because of them.”She stopped. “I know that the PK is the reason. I know that’s why you can’t find the survivors.”
Thayer did not linger with Irene Channing. “Doctor Taji, would you agree that survivors of TS are difficult to locate?”
“I’ve said that,” Jeff said. “And there are increasing indications that the decision to isolate the survivors is a military one.” He looked at the General, his mind alive with questions he longed to ask. This opportunity was so tempting that Jeff had to force himself to keep still, to control his urge to challenge General Warren to explain why the survivors were being sequestered. “We need to find these survivors,” he made himself say. “If we’re going to find a cure for all TS victims, we must have the survivors.”
“General Warren? What’s your response to that?” Thayer asked genially.
It was a moment before the General replied. “I don’t think any of you appreciate the potential of psychokinesis. We have here a defense so enormous that you cannot begin to grasp its full implication. A country with people with this . . . ability, can render itself invulnerable. The people who can move objects with nothing more than the power of thought give us an incalculable strength.”
“And the people who have the ability? What about them?” Thayer asked. “You are detaining them. We do have habeas corpus in this country. It seems to me that you and your colleagues are in violation of the law. There is also the matter of the Public Health contract most of them signed, which exempts their participation in military experimentation.” He sat back and waited to hear General Warren’s response.
“That was to protect us from biological warfare,” snapped the General.
“The reason why that was necessary is obvious,” Thayer interjected.
General Warren turned on him. “You smug, self-satisfied prick! You’re treating this like the people were immune to rabies or anthrax. This isn’t like that at all; it’s something brand new and we have an obligation to see that it is put to the most effective use!”
“Which you are to determine?” This was not Stewart Thayer but Irene Channing who asked. She had risen to her feet. “You are speaking about the people who have survived TS as if they were soldiers in your army, part of your weapons system to be programmed for the best field application. Well, General, I am one of those people, and I say to hell with you, to hell with your vision of a psychic secret weapon. None of us owe you anything. We’ve been through enough.” She sat down suddenly and turned to Thayer, prepared to apologize for her outburst.
“Missus Channing, you are wonderful.” Thayer addressed the camera. “The question seems to come down to whether people who possess special abilities—ESP, PK, or any of the rest of them—can or ought to be compelled to employ those abilities for the government. By extension, anyone with special attributes, either biological or intellectual, might be required to put those attributes to work at the whim of the state or its branches. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is totalitarianism at its worst. If we are going to portray ourselves as the champions of liberty and the helpers of the oppressed, the least we can do—that we must do—is see that these survivors of TS are released and permitted to resume their lives, however they see fit.” He paused, his intent stare now on General Warren. “Well, General? What is it going to be?”
“It’s not my decision,” General Warren said, for the first time his authority appearing more like bluster than strength.
“Whose is it?” Jeff asked.
“Well, ultimately, it’s . . . it’s the President’s decision.”
Thayer tapped the letter. “Oh?”
General Warren refused to look at it. “President Hunter was very ill. We had to take action. We had to be prepared.” He rose. “That’s all I’m going to say. You are not an official body and you have no power to—”
“Make you speak?” Thayer finished for him. “No, we don’t. What you decide to do is up to you. Pity you didn’t give the same options to the TS survivors.”
“Break,” said the producer’s v
oice from speakers. “It’s a very good start.”
“Start?” General Warren bellowed, now driven past his limit. “There isn’t going to be any more of this . . . this—”
“You needn’t stay,” Thayer said, and winked at Irene. “I think we’ve covered the pertinent points.”
General Warren stood, rigid with wrath. “You haven’t heard the last of this.”
“Good God, I hope not,” said Thayer. “And General, neither have you.”
—Mason Ross—
It was a sticky night, hot and clinging. The others were indoors, but Mason sat by the swimming pool, his feet in the water, as he played back the interviews with the latest batch of released survivors. Most of them were relieved, a few were angry. He listened closely, paying attention to every word as if seeking a coded message.
“Mason?” Ace Hardy asked as he stepped outside.
“I’m okay,” he said, sighing.
“Doesn’t sound like it to me,” Ace said.
“Well, I am. I was just . . . listening to some more of those guys the Army sent home. Hey, it sounds like they were in a war, doesn’t it.” He held up the tape recorder. “It’s like what they do at the front, or when the refugee train pulls into the station. Isn’t it.”
“A little; you could say that,” Ace answered carefully.
“Also,” Mason went on a short while later, “I was thinking about Loren Protheroe. I wish I’d known about . . . about how sick he was. Maybe I would have worked harder to understand TS, you know?”
“We all miss Loren,” said Ace. “There’s lots of people to miss.”
“I know,” said Mason. “They told me my Mom’s still alive. That’s something. She won’t talk to me, or answer my letters, at least she hasn’t yet.”
Ace came a few steps closer. “Give her time.”
Mason did not look at Ace; he stared out over the roof of the stable to the waning moon. “Yeah. Everyone says give it time, just wait, eventually everyone will forget, something else will happen and TS won’t matter anymore. Isn’t that what you’re telling us? Everyone will be treated and then we can all go home again.” He lowered his head. “Of course, that isn’t real easy to do anymore, is it? The twins don’t have anyone left except a couple old relatives who are as nuts as the twins are. Steve Channing can go back to his Mom; he’s lucky. Laurie doesn’t have anyone left. Gail’s Dad’s a little like my Mom. He never answers her letters. Harold—who knows what will happen to Harold. He’ll probably run away again, and one of the times you won’t find him.” He kicked his feet slowly, watching the crinkle of the water.
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