The White Plague

by Frank Herbert

  “Good God! What was that?” the bank manager shouted.

  They were a historical record, accurate but failing to touch anything within John McCarthy except that fierce determination to visit horror upon the authors of John O’Neill’s agony.

  As he grew accustomed to this play of memory, he found it could be expanded backward and forward. The punctual bomb had exploded during their first day in Dublin after an obligatory three days in a castle guest house near Shannon Airport. The three days had put heads and bodies into Ireland’s time zone after the flight from the United States.

  “Now we have our Irish feet,” Mary had said as they registered at the Sherbourne in Dublin.

  John had awakened early that first morning in the city by the Black Pool. There had not been one whiff of premonition. Contrast, that was what it had been. He had begun the day with an exuberant feeling of health and happiness – all of which only amplified the later anguish. Tragedies of that dimension should be anticipated by omens, he told himself later. There should be warnings, ways to prepare.

  There had been nothing.

  He awakened beside Mary in one of the two bedrooms of their suite. Turning toward her, he found himself intensely aware of her loveliness – the tousled hair, the eyelashes brushing her cheeks, the soft rise and fall of her breasts as she breathed deeply in sleep.

  The O’Neill thought was clear and simple: Ahhh, the fortune of this marriage.

  There had been peripheral awareness of the twins sleeping in the adjoining bedroom, the sounds of morning traffic on the street outside, a smell of baking bread in the air.

  A suite, b’gawd!

  The McCarthy grandfather would have been proud. “We’ll go back someday, lad,” the old man had often said. “We’ll return in style.”

  We’re here in style, Grampa Jack. You didn’t live to see it, but I hope you know about it.

  It had been a sad thing that Grampa Jack never made it back to the “old sod.” Back was probably not the correct word, though, because he had been born on the ship to Halifax.

  “All of this for seven hundred rifles!”

  That had been the McCarthy family plaint during the “poor times.” John had never lost the memory of Grampa Jack’s voice regretting the flight from Ireland. It was a story told and retold until it could be called up in total by John O’Neill. The McCarthy silver, buried to keep it from piratical English tax collectors, had been dug up to finance the purchase of seven hundred rifles for a Rising. In the aftermath of defeat, Grampa Jack’s father, a price on his head, had spirited the family to Halifax under an assumed name. They had not resumed the McCarthy name until they were safely into the United States, “well away from the thieving British.”

  In his Dublin hotel room, John O’Neill sat up quietly in the bed, aware then of how Mary’s breathing changed as she started to waken. She cleared her throat, but her eyes remained closed.

  Mary O’Gara of the Limerick O’Garas.

  She had loved Grampa Jack. “What a sweet old man. More Irish than the Irish.” None could sing “The Wearing of the Green” with a more stirring voice.

  “From your father’s people, John Roe O’Neill, you’re descended from the Ui Neill. Ard Ri, High Kings, they were on the Hill of Tara.”

  The grandfather had begun the genealogical litany the same way every time.

  “And from the McCarthys, well now, lad, we were kings once, too. Never you forget it. Castle McCarthy was a mighty place and strong men built it.”

  The O’Neill grandfather had died when John was two. John’s father, Kevin Patrick O’Neill, turning away from “the Irishness,” had sneered at Grampa Jack’s “McCarthy stories.” But John’s young head had been filled with Troubles and Risings and an abiding hatred of the British. He had particularly enjoyed the stories of Hugh O’Neill’s revolt and the rebellion of Owen Roe O’Neill.

  “Roe O’Neill, that’s part of my name, Grampa.”

  “Indeed ‘tis! And you’d be advised to live your life in a way that gives honor to such illustrious ancestors.”

  “Burn everything British except their coals!”

  How Grampa Jack had laughed at that.

  In the Dublin hotel room bed, Mary spoke beside John: “We’re really here.” Then: “I still miss Grampa Jack.”

  I believe it was Tacitus who said there is a principle of human nature requiring us to hate those we have wronged.

  – William Beckett, M.D.

  AN EVEN one hundred copies of the first “Madman Letter” went out and the following letters were more numerous. The first letters, all sent from an agency drop in Los Angeles, went to government officials, newscasters, editors and to important scientists. Their message was clear: quarantine the infected areas. To that end, some of the letters carried an additional page calling on scientist recipients to explain the gravity of the situation to their political leaders.

  Dr. William Ruckerman, past president of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, received one of the letters with the additional page. It arrived at his San Francisco home with the Monday morning mail and he opened it over breakfast. He realized at once why he had been selected to receive this letter – his own DNA researches were not exactly secret in the scientific community. This letter had been written by someone on the inside or close enough to the inside that the special nuances of Ruckerman’s project were known to him.

  Ruckerman reread the references to “back translation from the protein” to determine the RNA, “thence to the DNA transcription.” That was ordinary enough, but the writer of this letter also made it clear he had used a computer “to sort through the restriction fragments.”

  That was a bit more esoteric, a bit more inside.

  What sent a chill up Ruckerman’s spine was the reference to using sterioisomers in translating the RNA sequences in the protein molecules.

  “Superimposition to determine the patterns.”

  Those were the Madman’s words.

  Ruckerman suspected immediately that the man had used alkene polymerization for part of his breakdown series, conjugation and resonance… yes. The man implied as much.

  “The letter shows a full understanding of purification and subunit composition techniques,” he said to his wife, who was reading over his shoulder. “He knows.”

  There was enough information to convince a knowledgeable reader, Ruckerman realized. This, in itself, said a great deal about the author.

  There had to be more to it, Ruckerman knew. The Madman fell short of revealing key facts. But he led up to those facts with chilling accuracy. That, coupled to the threats, stirred Ruckerman to action.

  He thought carefully about how to handle this, then sent his wife to pack a suitcase, following her to the bedroom where he placed a call to the President’s science advisor, Dr. James Ryan Saddler. Even then, Ruckerman was forced to press his way through a barrier of secretaries.

  “Tell him it’s Will Ruckerman and it’s important.”

  “Could you tell me the nature of this important matter?” the secretary asked, her voice sweetly insistent.

  Ruckerman took two deep breaths to calm himself, staring at his reflection in the bedroom mirror. There were new lines in his angular face and his hair definitely was going gray. His wife, Louise, looked up from the packing, but did not speak.

  “Listen, whoever you are,” Ruckerman said. “This is Doctor Ruckerman, past president of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, a close friend of Jim Saddler. I have important information that the President of the United States should know. If there’s any need for you to know, I’m sure someone will tell you. Meanwhile, you patch me through to Jim.”

  “May I have your telephone number, sir?”

  She was all business now. Ruckerman gave her the number and cradled the telephone.

  Louise, who had read the Madman letter over his shoulder, asked: “You think that’s a real threat?”

  “I do.” He stood up and went to
the bathroom. Returning, he stood beside the bedroom phone and tapped his fingers on the dressertop. They were taking ungodly long about it. He knew they would get through to Saddler, though. Jim had laughingly explained it once.

  “The presidency of the United States runs on communication. Not on facts, but on the intangible thing we like to call ‘information,’ which is a kind of bargaining token exchanged at high levels. Carriers of this information always recognize the value of it. You’d be surprised at how many official reports begin with or include ‘We have information that…’ That’s not the royal ‘we’ but the bureaucratic ‘we.’ It means someone else can be blamed or share the blame if the information proves wrong.”

  Ruckerman knew he had put on enough pressure that the White House communications system, a military operation, would find Saddler.

  The telephone rang. Saddler was at Camp David, a male operator informed him. The science advisor’s voice sounded just a bit sleepy.

  “Will? What’s so damned important you have to –”

  “I won’t waste your time, Jim. I’ve received a letter that –”

  “From someone calling himself ‘The Madman’?”

  “That’s right. And I –”

  “The FBI’s on it, Will. Just another crank.”

  “Jim… I don’t think you’d be advised to treat this as a crank letter. His postscript should convince us of –”

  “What postscript?”

  “The additional page where he gives some of the details about –”

  “There’s no postscript on our letter. I’ll have an agent come around to pick it up.”

  “Dammit, Jim! Will you listen to me? I’ve been part way down the path this guy describes. He’s no amateur. Now, I’m warning you to treat his threat as real. If I were in your shoes, I’d be counseling the President to take at least the first steps toward complying with –”

  “Oh, come on, Will! Do you have any idea of the political implications? He wants a quarantine! Then he wants us to send all Libyans in the U.S. back to Libya, all Irish back to Ireland, all English back to England – everyone, including their diplomats. We can’t just –”

  “If we don’t, he threatens to bring the U.S. into…” Ruckerman paused, then read from the letter: “. . . the net of his revenge.”

  “I read that and I don’t give one bit of credence to –”

  “You aren’t listening, Jim! I’m telling you it’s possible to do what this guy threatens.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m deadly serious.”

  The line went silent and Ruckerman could hear faint crosstalk, the voices too low to make out the words. Saddler came back on: “Will, if it were anyone else telling me this… I mean, deadly new diseases for which there are no natural resistances and… How the hell could he spread them?”

  “I can think of a dozen easy ways without even straining my imagination.”

  “Dammit! You’re beginning to frighten me.”

  “Good. This letter scares the shit out of me.”

  “Will, I’ll have to see that postscript before –”

  “You won’t act on my recommendation?”

  “How can I be expected to go in to the –”

  “Jim… time is important. The President should be briefed immediately. The affected diplomats should be alerted. The military, the police in major cities, health officials, Civil Defense…”

  “That might cause a panic!”

  “You have the main body of his letter. He says he’s already loosed this thing. That means quarantine. Damn it all, he says it plain enough: ‘Let it run its course where I have loosed it. Remember that I can introduce malignancy wherever I choose. If you attempt to sterilize the infected areas by atomic means, I shall give my revenge the open run of every land on this globe.’ Read that part again, Jim, and in the light of my warning, you tell me what you should be doing right now.”

  “Will, if you’re wrong, do you have any idea what the repercussions –”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  “You’re asking me to take a lot on faith.”

  “Dammit, Jim, you’re a scientist! You should know by now that –”

  “Then you tell me, Will, how a disease can be made sex-specific.”

  “Okay. At the present stage of my own project, which I’m convinced is far behind this Madman… Well, I believe diseases can be tailored to many genetic variations – to white skin, for example; to the susceptibility to sickle-cell anemia…”

  “But how could one person… I mean, the cost!”

  “Peanuts. I’ve run a calculation on the required equipment – less than three hundred thousand dollars, including the computer. A basement lab somewhere…” Ruckerman fell silent.

  Presently, Saddler said: “I’ll want that list of equipment. The suppliers should be able to…”

  “I’ll read it off to you in a minute, but I think it’ll be too late even if we locate his lab.”

  “You really think…”

  “I think he’s done it. This letter… he lays out the essentials and there’s not a mistake in it. I think Ireland, Great Britain and Libya… and probably the rest of us are in for one terrible time. I don’t see how we can totally contain such a thing. But for openers, we’d better set about quarantining those areas… for our own safety if not for other reasons.”

  “What other reasons?”

  “This Madman is still running around loose. We don’t want him mad at us.”

  “Will, he says not a human female will survive in those three nations. I mean, really! How can…”

  “I’ll give you a more complete analysis later. Right now, I’m begging you to take the necessary first steps. The President should be on that hotline to Moscow and to the other major capitals. He should –”

  “Will, I believe I’d better send a plane for you. I don’t want to take this to the President by myself. If we have to convince him, well, he knows your reputation and if you –”

  “Louise already has packed my bag. And Jim, one of the first things to do is to get as many young women as possible into that Denver hideaway the military is so proud of. Women, got that? And only enough men to run the technical end of a survival plan.”

  Ruckerman let this sink in – many women, few men, just the opposite of what might occur outside such a sanctuary. He continued:

  “The Russians and the other world leaders ought to be advised to take similar action. That’ll go a long way toward convincing them of our sincerity. We don’t want the Russians thinking this is some diabolical capitalist plot. God knows they’re paranoid enough as it is.”

  “I think we should leave high-level diplomatic decisions to the experts, Will. You just get your ass back here with enough evidence to convince me you’re right.”

  Ruckerman replaced the phone in its cradle and looked across the bedroom at his wife.

  “He’s going to wait for you,” she said.

  Ruckerman slammed his fist against the dressertop, making the telephone bounce. “Louise, you take the car. Pack only necessities. Buy as much food as you can safely store and get up to our place at Glen Ellen. Take the guns. I’ll be in touch.”

  I obey the Master of Death.

  – Part of an Ulster secret society oath

  ACHILL ISLAND, south of Blacksod Bay in County Mayo, stood out against a storm-blown Atlantic morning in which the Irish countryfolk already were active, preparing for the first flow of tourists, getting the hay planted, cutting sods and piling them to dry, generally going about the everyday activities of their lives.

  The island was a play of many greens interspersed with spots of black rock and flecks of white where the residents had raised their buildings. Achill, split from the main body of Ireland by the retreat of the last glacier, held few trees. The steep slopes of its hills were lined with furze growing along the sod cutters’ furrows and the first marsh violets were beginning to show themselves, competing with stone brambles and saxifrag
e and the omnipresent heather. Here and there, pennywort had begun to poke its way out of the rocks.

  A granite ruin lay crumbled into the weeds atop the hill where the road from Mulrany curved around before dropping down to the bridge across to the island. Its lancet arches and crenellated battlements had collapsed into low mounds covered by a few stunted ivy plants and lichen. The scabbed rock surfaces gave not a hint of the slitted windows where defenders had failed to repel Cromwell.

  Two polite young soldiers with Irish Harp insignia at their shoulders stood at the barricade that blocked the bridge to the island. They already had turned back two tourist autos that had entered the road to the island before the barriers had been raised farther back at Mulrany. The soldiers had apologized for the inconvenience and suggested the tourists go instead to Balmullet, “a beautiful place where the old ways may still be seen.” To all questions, the soldiers responded: “We’re not at liberty to say, but it’s sure to be only temporary.”

  Three goods lorries traveling tandem with supplies for the island’s stores were harder to placate.

  “We’re very sorry, lads, but it’s none of our doing. I agree you should’ve been warned, but it’s no use complaining. Orders is orders. This road is closed.”

  Four armored cars with a major in charge pulled up as the soldiers were arguing with the lorry drivers. The major and a sergeant jumped out, the sergeant with an automatic rifle held at the ready. The major, a thin, stony-eyed man with bush gray hair under a forage cap, accepted the salutes of the two soldiers, then turned to the lorry drivers.

  “Back the way you came, lads. No more arguing.”

  One of the drivers started to speak, but the major cut him short. “Turn those lorries around and get out of here or one of my men will drive them into the water and we’ll take you back under guard!”

  Muttering, the drivers climbed into their cabs, backed the lorries into the car park beside the bridge and headed up the road to Mulrany. The major stepped over to his radioman in one of the armored cars and said: “Alert Mulrany to keep those lads moving out.”