They all were.
But in the inspector's office he found a report. He checked hastily. Milk absolutely safe. Three score public markets tested in key positions throughout the city, and all reported negative. Sewage negative. Rivers negative. Where, in God's name, was the infection coming from? From the skies?
Perhaps.
Cole trotted back to his car, thinking desperately. This might be something like cosmic ray infection.
A new type of solar radiation or barrage ... something wild. Like Oh!
He reeled back from a sudden blow, rolled over and glanced up hastily. The Thing he saw made his blood run cold. Long arms and a crocodile skin with talonlike teeth that glittered. Cole pulled his knees back as the Thing dived at him. He kicked savagely, driving his heels into the chest. It grunted, blowing a gust of charnel breath in his face, paused, then plunged at him again.
Cole caught it with one heel and pushed it to the pavement. In another second he had the revolver out and fired point-blank from the hip. The Thing staggered back from the smash of the thirty-eight, gasped hoarsely and plodded toward him again.
Horrified, Cole stepped back and fired once more, carefully at the head. This time it halted, knelt slowly and at last toppled to the ground, a shuddering Thing that had once been a man.
But the shooting had attracted attention. Cole heard sounds and saw shapes looming up from the tight little side streets of City Hall. Panic-stricken, he sprinted for the car. The motor choked and ground but would not take. Cole leaned over and locked both doors. Once more he tried the starter. As the engine turned and hiccoughed he heard scratches on the doors. He turned, caught a horrible glimpse of weird faces. Then a fist smashed through the window and at that instant the motor caught. Cole slammed into gear and sped the car off just as claws reached for his throat. The acceleration tumbled his attackers from the running board. He was safe—so far.
CHAPTER II
First Clues
COLE headed up Broadway and tried to soothe his jagged nerves. He'd learned something. The things were almost impossible to kill. He'd have to get plenty of ammunition.
The shambles through which he drove were maddening. He wondered how long it would be before he too succumbed. Perhaps he wouldn't at all, though, he speculated. Evidently a certain percentage of the city had immunity to the mysterious blight. Cole turned on the radio, just in case. He caught the announcer's flash:
“—epidemic the United States has ever known. Aid is being rushed to New York at once, although the Government does not state whether it will arrive in time. New York has not answered any kind of communication for the past twelve hours and there is the terrible possibility that there is no one living. The entire region over a thirty-mile square has been isolated under strict quarantine. This broadcast is being specially directed toward the city from Philadelphia in the hopes that those who are still safe will know that aid will arrive within eight hours—”
Eight hours!
Cole turned east to Madison Avenue, drove swiftly uptown and yanked to a halt before Abercrombie. He headed for the game department, deciding that it was time to supply himself with a heavier revolver and plenty of ammunition. On his way out he was amazed to discover over thirty people, perfectly sane and normal, living in the basement of the store. They had been there since the plague had broken out in its virulent form.
Just as a check, Cole drove past the 42nd Street subway entrance and dropped in to investigate.
Here, too, he found hundreds of normal people who had taken the underground as a refuge. They were living there cheerful, unharmed. Perplexed, Cole started the car and sped back to the hospital. This was his first break. He didn't yet know what the blight was or what it meant, but he did know that people who were underground were safe from its dangers. Why? There had to be a reason.
At the hospital, Cole was horrified to discover the gates open and unguarded. He turned up the driveway and inched slowly across the grounds, peering from side to side. No guards? That meant something wrong. He stopped the car and was about to get out when a small geyser of dirt flicked up before him and he heard the rip of a shot from the staff house.
Cole squinted and saw white uniforms leaning from the windows and beckoning at him. Quickly he drove down the length of the grounds and into the small garage behind the house. He darted up the steps.
The door opened; and he was yanked into an excited crowd of doctors and nurses.
“No one's safe in the Main Building,” came the hasty explanations. “Homicidal mania's spreading like wildfire.”
“All of them?” he gasped.
Little Dr. Dunn shouldered forward. Cole was glad to see the pathologist still healthy.
“Not all,” answered Dunn. “About twenty per cent.”
“What about the rest?”
“Monstrous-looking . . . terrified ... irritable, but no more dangerous than an ordinary mob of humans.”
“No more dangerous!” Cole grinned sourly, “You ever hear of lynching?”
There was an uncomfortable shuffle in the group and Cole changed the topic hastily.
“Listen,” he said, “I think I've got a little information that might help. Where's Miller?”
Dunn's face fell. “Disappeared,” he said at length. “Maybe it got him or maybe they got him. Can't tell.”
“Too bad.” Cole paused, thoughtful. He realized what a keen blow Miller's loss would be to them.
Then he began briskly: “Anyway, I've discovered that living underground seems to ward off infection.
Does that mean anything to any of you?”
No one answered until a voice grumbled from the background. “Suffering sinus, I'm only a doctor!”
There was enough of a laugh to relieve the tension. They settled down as best they could to exchange information.
“I need statistics,” Cole told them. “If you could give me enough facts I might be able to draw up an empirical theory about this crazy business. We've got to do something before the relief gets here or they'll walk smack into slaughter.”
No one answered. They had nothing to contribute.
“Simmons? Carmichael? Allen? Doesn't anybody know anything?”
“Er . . . Doctor Cole . . .” She was a plain-looking nurse he didn't know from Eve.
“Well?” he demanded abstractedly.
“Reports were sent in to Director Miller's office, covering every phase of the epidemic.”
“Yes?” Cole urged eagerly. “Unfortunately, the report is probably where I last saw it—on Director Miller's desk.”
Cole stood up, wrapped in thought, amid the disgruntled exclamations that followed. For the first time in the rapid series of events of the past week he felt the sore need of Miller's driving force and keen executive ability. Miller was an organizer and leader, by nature suited to bring order out of chaos. At last Cole shrugged and looked around.
“Well,” he said, “I guess I'll just have to get them their reports.” He shook off their protests, inspected his new gun, and prepared to leave. Then Dunn came up and took his arm.
“See here, Lewis,” he said, “if you must go, why not minimize the risk? Now I know this much. The harmless variety won't bother you if you don't incite them. The violent ones will tear at anything that remotely resembles a normal individual. Let's get you a disguise.”
They dashed through the staff house searching for make-up. Simmons admitted to a love of amateur theatricals and supervised the facial distortions. They mixed flour with water and pasted lumps over Cole's face, stuffed his clothes with lumpy pillows and mottled his skin with paints. When Simmons was done, Cole walked crookedly down to the main building and shuffled inside.
He spent a harrowing hour in Miller's office amidst shambling, screaming monstrosities, literally fighting his way to the desk. It was overturned, the papers scattered all over. Cole felt his position so precarious he was forced to scoop up armfuls of paper and ram them into his shirt, hoping the reports would be includ
ed. At last he fought his way outside and ran back to the staff house.
While he showered and had a little supper he told the others about the hospital-shambles. Then they settled down in the library and sifted through the papers. In his haste, Cole had been unable to eliminate the chaff. He found bills for stationary, requests for favors . . . all the tedious business that Miller was accustomed to take in his stride. Then Cole unearthed a receipted bill for raw beef bones—six thousand dollars' worth. He fingered it curiously, wondering what earthly use the director could have had for such material, and then went on with the serious work.
The reports that he and the others examined were critical and laughable by turns. Some were imaginative and spoke of Martians and the red plague. Others were too brief, too tragically succinct.
There were hundreds of questions that could be asked, questions that would have to remain unanswered.
At last Cole looked at the sorry little list he had gleaned from the mass and arose.
“Well,” he said, “we don't know an awful lot. I've managed to bring back a pile of paper and one picture, the latter included by mistake. The total facts we've been able to gather are: one, that people underground are not affected; two, that although the growths affect humans haphazardly they seem to affect vegetative life uniformly.”
“How's that?” someone called.
“When I say uniformly,” explained Cole, “I mean that all reports show that only one side of trees and tall brush is affected. The humps protrude the entire length of the bole, but only on one side!”
“Like moss growing on the north side?”
“That's just about it,” laughed Cole. “Now in addition to these findings, I made one other that may or may not bear on the case. While I was lurking around the hot houses I happened to look in. The vegetative growths there were absolutely normal!”
Dunn whistled in amazement.
“Just what it means, though, I couldn't say,” continued Cole.
“Never mind about that for the time being,” interrupted Simmons. “I've an idea. Let's assume this epidemic is a result of some radiation form. X-rays can produce something like this. Then the natural question is: where's the source of radiation?”
“Perhaps from overhead. Cosmic, or something—”
“Not when you look at those trees,” answered Simmons.
“Right!” snapped Cole. “The rest of you get the idea? Simmons is suggesting that the ulcerated side of the tree points toward the source of radiation.”
“So?”
“So we'll do a little research. Suppose we take the principle of the radio direction finder. In other words, let's go out, dig up some accurate compasses, and plot the direction of tumors on trees over a wide stretch. Say as far east as Port Jefferson and west to Sommerville or High Bridge. It'll take some time, but I think it's worth the few hours. We can plot the directions. The radiation source should be pretty close to the intersection of those lines.”
CHAPTER III
Station Death
IT was quite dark when seven of the hospital's staff squeezed into the car with Cole. They headed for New York, ferreted out three other cars, and broke into an instrument shop for the necessary equipment.
At last they split to cover their assignments.
Cole and Dunn, who had the New York sector, drove in silence, watching the streets cautiously. The occasional normal-looking humans they saw scurrying down the side streets showed them that the infection had not attacked the entire population. The sight of that immunity strengthened their faith in their own. Reflecting on the curious enigma of immunity, Cole questioned his companion.
“I don't know the answer,” said Dunn. “There are two factors that might operate. First, the external and internal coatings of the individual furnish mechanical protections against infection. Second, the insusceptible individual contains no receptors for the infection. That is to say, no organic substratum exists upon which the invasion can anchor.”
“Seems to me,” said Cole, “that our immunity should be a matter of mechanical skin protection, since we suspect ray infection.”
“Very likely,” Dunn nodded. “Probably all of us have an unknown skin quality in common. Perhaps the answer lies in skin pigmentation. But there's not enough time to find out.” He shrugged.
Turning north on Fifth Avenue, the car passed Sherman's statue and sped along the east side of the Park. The hideous shrubbery and monstrous creatures that twisted and stumbled through the broken branches made them shudder. After a pause, Dunn nudged Cole.
“By the way,” he asked, “who was in that one picture you found in Miller's office?”
“Miller,” was the answer. “Miller and a man by the name of Gurwitsch. Just one of those informal snapshots. Must have been on Miller's desk. Funny I never noticed it before.”
“Not the Alexander Gurwitsch?”
“The very same. Miller studied with him for three years. I don't suppose you knew our director was a damned fine zoologist before he took over the reins?”
“I didn't,” answered Dunn. “But if he worked under Gurwitsch he worked with the best. A. G. has done some remarkable things with abnormal plant growth.”
“Abnormal plant growth?” echoed Cole.
“Yep. Report in the Journal of Zoology. Look it up in the staff library some time when you get the chance.”
They proceeded unmolested to the north end of Central Park and took a dozen careful compass readings. As they turned south again and drove downtown, they were horrified to see a dull red glow on the horizon that could mean only one thing—that the city was in flames.
Central Park South was filled with hordes of hoarse-shouting, gesticulating creatures who were rioting with flaming torches. The two men, watching carefully, saw to their amazement that the mobs were being led by leaders clad in peculiar, white, semi-transparent suits, with hoods that covered their heads.
Dismayed at the chaotic turn of events, Dunn turned the car toward home and sped rapidly toward the bridge. But at Canal Street Cole suddenly ordered Dunn to stop and, to the latter's bewilderment, vaulted out and disappeared into the darkness. There was the sound of running feet, an exclamation and the plunk of a fist meeting a jaw. Presently Cole returned with a piece of glossy material in his hand.
“Saw one of the Boys in White,” he explained, “and I wanted to get a look at their uniforms. Here's a hunk. What d'you make of it?”
Dunn took the strip of uniform and fingered it meditatively.
“Feels like a gelatin cloth to me,” he said.
“Me, too,” answered Cole. “But why gelatin? And why a uniform?”
“I think the radio might give us the answer. The gentle Boys in White seem to be doing all right when it comes to inciting to riot. Probably a nice little organization!” Dunn reached down and switched on the radio.
“—in this time of chaos. Citizens of New York, our homes, our country, our lives and the lives of those we love are in the highest danger. New York has been attacked. The time has come to declare that a most critical emergency exists. The existing government is inadequate to handle the situation. In such emergency, when the same peril may attack all our other cities at any moment, I appeal to you to join my Army of Health. Support me and I pledge that normality will be restored and the country healed. Seek out any man you see in white uniform and say you want to aid the Healer. The Healer is the only man who can save the country—”
“Pretty, isn't it?” Dunn clicked off the set and sneered. “The cleverest technique for setting up a dictatorship I've heard of in a long time. From healing the country it'll be just one short step to taking over the country.”
“Yes, but why gelatin uniforms?” persisted Cole.
“Simple. Kills two birds with one stone. Probably this Healer has started all the trouble. Probably manufactured and sent out the uniforms to his men in advance. They must immunize the wearers.”
“Perhaps—” mused Cole. He was silent for the rest of the
trip home.
The other explorers had not yet returned when they reached the staff house. Cole ran up to the library, got a few books, and locked himself in his room with instructions that he be called when all had arrived.
The long hours of the night dragged interminably while the besieged staff kept close watch and listened to the mad sounds that echoed across the grounds from the hospital buildings. At last a car drove up to the house, followed by a second and later a third. The excited searchers called Cole and all crowded into the dining room for another conference.
“While Dunn is plotting the radiation lines on the map,” said Cole, “let me tell you what we've learned.
We find that the source of infection is a radiation. How? From a series of clues.
“First: I've checked almost every possible mechanical means of contamination and found all negative.
“Second: there is the all important evidence of the tree and shrub infections. I don't think anyone will deny that evidence points to a radiation flowing from a definite quarter ...” He paused and looked around.
Simmons came up grinning and placed a map in his hand.
“Moreover,” continued Cole, “there's other evidence. Why were the plants in the hot-house unaffected? Why are people living underground unharmed? Obviously, they are protected from the harmful exposure.”
What’s this mysterious exposure?” demanded a score of voices.
“I don't know,” answered Cole, “but I can tell you a simple story that will explain a lot. Biologists at the All-Union Institute of Experimental Medicine at Moscow have been experimenting with the reproduction rate of living tissue. They noticed that cell division frequently followed a definite rhythm and concluded that it might originate in neighboring cells.
“They set up an experiment. Taking young slender roots, they placed one so that its tip pointed directly at a side of a second. The first they called the biological cannon, the second the detector. They permitted the two roots to remain in this position for three hours. Then the detector was sectioned and the number of cell divisions on both sides of the root were counted. In the exposed area about one-fourth more divisions were discovered. Apparently, the biological gun made a difference.
Selected Stories of Alfred Bester Page 32
