The White Plague

by Frank Herbert

  There had been a bad few days when they brought the serum and told her their decision. So cold-blooded they had sounded, and she had screamed at the hulking Doctor Beckett, that ugly, lantern-jawed man with his gigantic mouth and the awful words coming out of it.

  “You and your husband can have many daughters, Mrs. Browder. You’ve already demonstrated that, and, with our new techniques of genetic control, we can insure that you have only daughters.”

  Men in white coats had been holding her all through this, keeping her away from Gilla, not even letting Stephen be with her.

  Beckett, an angry light in his eyes, had shouted at her: “We’ve only enough serum for you, Mrs. Browder!”

  “Give it to Gilla!”

  “No! If your blood picks up fast enough, we can give your blood serum to the baby. We may be able to save her.”

  “May be!” she had screamed.

  But there had been no resisting the strong men and that was the way it had been – her arm strapped down, a needle in it. She had lived through dreadful days, rocking Gilla and sobbing, fearing every moment that she would see the terrible plague symptoms in the infant.

  After the injection, Stephen had been permitted to come to her. Sounding almost like a priest, he had pleaded with her to “be calm and accept whatever God gives us.” Stephen and the drugs had tried to be soothing but she could still think back to that time and feel the awful tremors in her stomach. Gilla at her breast restored the calm. The blood serum had been produced in time. And now, everyone was giving blood serum. It was spreading out across the world like a wave.

  The door behind Kate opened and she heard Stephen enter, the cautious movements. She saw him in the mirror, the way he looked at the mirror, not liking it but accepting the necessity. He had seen the long lines out there, the avid eyes peering in at mother and child. Stephen was resisting extensions of the viewing time but Kate was not sure this was right.

  In the whole world, the ratio of men to women was said to be ten thousand to one or worse. Here in England, of course, it was worse, although women saved by resourceful men were still being found and inoculated. A great new barracks establishment had been set up at Aldershot where the women were being protected. Kate wondered how those women felt about her own special status – the first one saved. The Woman in the Tank. She knew there was pressure to get her back to Ireland, but she and Stephen were agreed that it was not yet safe. There were still Beach Boys with weapons roaming loose. And there were even women survivors being found in Ireland, although the stories of their tribulations filled Kate with horror. Troubles! That was all Ireland ever seemed to experience.

  I was lucky.

  She sensed the power in her position. She was a symbol in a world agog with the announcements being made from Kangsha and Huddersfield. Despite her nurse’s training, she found some of the things being said almost too much to accept. Was it possible that she and Gilla might live five thousand years or more? They were saying that they could assure from conception whether a baby would be male or female and that the female birth ratio was going to be held at “very high levels” until the balance had been restored.

  Kate found the thought of a five-thousand-year lifetime difficult to imagine. Five thousand years. What would she do with all of that time? There would have to be more than producing babies, although she knew this would be her duty for years to come. Duty! Hard from the mouth of a priest, it was a male word… a legal judgment. There would be no escaping it. She and Stephen must produce more daughters.

  There were compensations, though. Kate found she rather liked her present female eminence, sensing that she must take advantage of it while she could. It would not endure in the face of this new genetic science. While it lasted, it was exciting. The men paying court to her! That was the only way to describe it: courting. Not flirtation or simple attempts at seduction; the men were serious and it enraged Stephen.

  Kate saw in the mirror that Stephen had taken a chair by the smaller window behind her, the one looking out over the Huddersfield campus. The way he pretended to sit there reading his book! He was making a statement to the passing viewers: “This one is mine!”

  She liked that. Kate could feel the love of Stephen, a warm current all through her body. A bond of terrible strength had been welded between them in the confinement of the isolation tank. She knew tiny detailed things about him now, weaknesses and strengths.

  He saved my life.

  Each suckling movement of the baby drawing life’s own milk from her breast amplified the waves of loving heat she felt for Stephen. She sensed it deep in her abdomen.

  The courting men were interesting, though, especially the Russian, Lepikov. What a charming man. Old World charm. How amusing he was, lifting those thick black eyebrows at her, rolling his dark eyes. Poor man. His entire family dead somewhere in the Soviet Union. She felt so sad when she thought of it. How she wanted to cradle his head on her breast and comfort him. Stephen would never permit that, though.

  Its stomach full, the baby turned away from her breast and drifted into sleep, a tiny bubble of milk on her lips. Kate smiled down at her daughter, taking her time about covering herself. Gilla was such a fascinating person to watch: the miniature face in innocent repose, that little dimple on her left cheek. What a blessing. What a miracle.

  Kate glanced at her wristwatch: 10:10 A.M. She held the watch to her left ear. It still ran perfectly after all this time. She thought sadly of her mother presenting the watch to her the day Kate had gone off to nursing school.

  Ahhhh, Momma, I wish you could see your own granddaughter, your own flesh and blood, alive and happy.

  Perhaps it was a blessing, though, that Momma could only look down from heaven at this scene. A terrible price was being asked of women. Secondary husbands… and even more. Kate felt a thrilling shiver at what she might be asked to accept. And how strange it was that the two priests disagreed on this question. She dared not even raise the problem with Stephen. She knew how he would react. The tiny steel chamber with its ever-sounding airpump had created a singleness between them, though, and she suspected that Stephen knew what she was thinking.

  “The priest’s here,” Stephen said.

  Just from his tone and before she looked up, Kate knew it was Father Cavanagh and not Father Michael. Stephen liked Father Michael and barely tolerated Cavanagh. Kate found this difficult to understand. Father Michael had married them back in Ireland, but he was such a hard man, that horse face never smiling. Father Cavanagh, however, was jolly and soothing. He spoke of a happy God who wanted pleasant things for his flock. Father Michael was stern and threatening. He liked to talk philosophy with Stephen. It got so boring at times.

  Father Cavanagh brought up a chair and seated himself in front of Kate, their knees almost touching.

  “And how are we today?” Father Cavanagh asked, his voice booming. “Gilla’s looking as fine as a sunny day and it full of spring flowers.”

  Kate could see in the mirror how Stephen sneered at this. She knew what he was thinking. Cavanagh was a bit absurd with his Irish phrasings uttered in that odd English accent.

  The priest leaned forward and tweaked one of Gilla’s toes. The baby made a scowling face but resumed her innocent sleep when he removed his hand.

  “Now, Kate,” he said, “there’s a rare light of health in your face. Have you need for anything special today? Is your heart at peace?”

  “I never felt better, Father.”

  “It’s what comes from the cure,” Father Cavanagh intoned. “It strengthens the body. Look how the injections have helped your little Gilla overcome the effects of being born prematurely.”

  “It’s a miracle,” she agreed.

  “God is bountiful.” He patted her knee and stood, letting his hand linger until he was upright.

  “Are you going so soon, Father?” she asked.

  “They asked me to make it short today. There’s an important visitor waiting to see you. Isn’t that a wonder? You�
�re a very precious person, Kate. I remember you and Gilla in the Mass every morning.”

  With a stiff smile for Stephen, Father Cavanagh left them.

  “A visitor?” Kate asked.

  Gilla whimpered. Kate bounced her gently, keeping her attention on Stephen.

  “I haven’t any idea,” Stephen said. He looked at Kate. “They haven’t said a thing.”

  Kate shuddered. She sensed danger, aware of a difference. Yes… there was no more sound of people shuffling past the mirror-window. The air in the room smelled suddenly stale and full touched by faint tobacco aroma that the priest always left behind.

  The door where the priest had gone opened suddenly and Rupert Stonar entered with a stranger in a naval uniform. The stranger had wide shoulders and long arms. His face was extremely narrow, with an enormous Roman nose that overshadowed a small mouth and sharp chin. His eyes were set too close together, Kate thought, but the lashes were long and curved. She knew Stonar, though, and looked a question at him.

  “May I introduce Admiral Francis Delacourt?” Stonar said. “The admiral, as you may know, is the chief of Barrier Command and, since the outrage in New York, is effectively head of the United Nations. It was Admiral Delacourt who saved you by sending a barge and tug when the Irish civil war started.”

  “We are very grateful,” Stephen said. He shook hands with the admiral, feeling a brief muscular grip in a dry hand.

  Delacourt turned to Kate then and bent over her hand, kissing it. “Charmed,” he said.

  Kate blushed and looked down at the baby. Gilla took that moment to empty her bladder. “Oh, my!” Kate said, passing the baby to Stephen. “Would you change her, dear?”

  Stephen took the baby, feeling the warm dampness.

  “The nappies are in the other room,” Kate said. She smiled up at the admiral. “I’ve never met a real admiral before.”

  “I’ll just go along with you, Stephen,” Stonar said, taking Browder’s arm. “The admiral has a request to make of Kate.”

  “What request?” Stephen asked, feeling a sudden chill in Stonar’s manner.

  “The request is of Kate O’Gara, not of you,” Stonar said, pressing Stephen along.

  “That’s Kate Browder! I’m her husband.” Stephen planted his feet and refused to be moved.

  “Oh, I guess you haven’t heard,” Stonar said. “Women will no longer take a husband’s name. Matrilineal descent has been made a matter of law, the father’s name being secondary.”

  “What law?” Stephen demanded.

  “The law of this world. It’s a United Nations thing,” Stonar said, trying to press Stephen out of the room.

  “I’m not leaving!” Stephen said. “Let go of my arm!”

  “Be careful!” Kate cried. “You’ll hurt the baby!”

  “Let it be,” Admiral Delacourt said. “He should be present even though the request is of the lady.”

  Stonar released Stephen’s arm but remained standing beside him.

  “What request?” Stephen asked.

  “I lost my entire family in the plague,” Delacourt said. “My request is that this lady give me a child.”

  Stephen started to move toward him, the baby held foolishly in his arms, but Stonar restrained him with an arm across his chest. “Be careful of the baby, you idiot!” Stonar grabbed Stephen’s arm and held it firmly.

  “Why does such a request shock you?” the admiral asked, looking at Stephen. “Surely, you must realize it is the norm now… there are so few women. It’s just that I do not wish my line to die out.”

  Kate got to her feet, brushing at her skirt. A glance in the mirror told her there was a big wet spot from the baby in the middle of her lap. She looked pale, she saw. “Are there no other women to…” She couldn’t complete it.

  Stonar spoke while still holding Stephen, who permitted it for fear of harming Gilla.

  Tell him, Kate! Stephen thought. Tell him to get the hell out of here with his evil request!

  Stephen grew aware gradually of what Stonar was saying: So few women being sent to the devastated areas!

  “China, Argentina, Brazil and the United States are the only nations that have consented, by local option, to share their breeding women,” Stonar said. “England will get little more than a thousand of them.”

  Like cattle, Kate thought. She looked at the admiral. He was a powerful man, the head of Barrier Command. That meant warships and the backing of the United Nations. Accepting him could keep worse things from happening. She looked pleadingly at Stephen. Couldn’t he see it? Her resolution of only a few minutes ago now seemed like a silly, schoolgirl thing that she had suddenly outgrown.

  “Could you return in about a half hour, please, Admiral?” she asked. “Stephen and I need a little time to talk.” She smiled at Stonar. “Mister Stonar, could you change Gilla for us? The nappies are in that little cabinet at the foot of her crib.”

  Stonar took the baby from Stephen’s unresisting hands. The admiral smiled at Kate and bowed over her hand. He had already heard her answer in her tone of voice. She was a sensible woman, almost French in her manner. Perhaps they would have more than one child together.

  In the other room, Stonar dropped the side of the crib and placed the baby on it. Gilla kicked her feet at him and gurgled with delight as he removed the wet diaper. The admiral helped him, both of them smiling at the thought of this scene – the two of them doing a nanny’s work.

  “She’s going to accept you,” Stonar said.

  “You heard that in her voice, too.” The admiral lifted the baby and smiled at her. Was that a smile in return or just gas, as they said?

  “I could almost pick her myself,” Stonar said. “But I could never forget that she’s Irish.”

  “Good God, man, you aren’t still harping on…”

  “My only son was killed during the Bloody Amnesty in Belfast… after the plague. He was a paratroop officer. They tortured him to death.”

  “Oh, I am sorry!”

  The admiral put the baby over his shoulder and patted her, feeling very fatherly. He had been well briefed on the troubles in Ulster. An Irish-Canadian had spent several hours at it.

  “What was really at the root of it in the North was the Ulsterman’s fear that the Catholics would institute just reprisals for all the oppressions of the past.”

  Two generations a Canadian and the man had still sounded like an angry Irishman as he handed the admiral a copy of an Ulster pamphlet signed by someone named William Boyce, commander of the Belfast Brigade:

  “Now, these were the things we rightly feared should the Catholics of the South prevail over us – divorce prohibited, contraception illegal, no health plans, all of the things you find in the Eire Constitution. We know about the Catholic families, at least twelve children in every one, all of them living in hovels and slums, beggars in the streets, the whole dirty lot.”

  “Do you think we’ll really be able to outlaw contraception?” the admiral asked.

  “Of course! With the Church behind us, how can we fail?”

  The failure of civilization can be detected by the gap between public and private morality. The wider the gap, the nearer the civilization to final dissolution.

  – Jost Hupp

  BILL BECKETT sat alone in the VIP lounge of Air Force One, insulated from the jet sounds by expensive soundproofing. The place smelled of leather and good whiskey. He glanced at his wristwatch: 10:28 EST. The parade was scheduled to start at 1:00 P.M. in Washington, D.C. He stared at all the empty seats around him, thinking of what this privileged isolation really meant. Ruckerman, who slept now back in the private bedroom, had chortled at sight of the plane.

  “Numero Uno, by God!”

  The President had sent this plane especially for the two of them, a full general to escort them and brief them on the ceremonies awaiting them in Washington: a parade, addresses to the joint session of Congress, medals, a banquet in the White House. The general, a Walter Monk, had looked too young fo
r the job – all smiles and white teeth but cruel eyes, ruthless.

  Beckett sighed.

  It was all true what Marge had babbled to him over the telephone.

  “You’re a hero, I tell you!”

  What a strange conversation, the girls squealing and crying, telling him how much they loved him, how famous he was, then passing the phone back to Marge with: “Mother has something real important to tell you.”

  “There’s talk of running you for President,” Marge said.

  My God! He couldn’t absorb it all. He had been too close to the plague project for too long, his vision restricted to the day-by-day demands of their research. And Marge springing the next revelation on him with never a hint to prepare him, not one single clue in any of their few scanty telephone and radio contacts – it had almost overloaded the system.

  “Bill, I don’t want you to worry. You’re my Primary and always will be.”

  Primary! How quickly the jargon took over. But he knew then what she was about to announce. The Secondary Marriage between Kate O’Gara and Admiral Francis Delacourt had set the pattern.

  “You’d better know it before you arrive, though, darling,” Marge said. “It’ll be so obvious when you see me. I’m pregnant.”

  He could hear the girls behind her, chattering: “Tell him about…” The rest was lost as Marge continued.

  “Didn’t you hear me, Bill?”

  “I heard you.”

  “You sound all tight and angry the way you do. Bill, you’ve got to accept this!”

  “I accept it.”

  “The father is Arthur Dalvig, darling. General Dalvig. He’s our regional military commander. You’ll like him, I know you will.”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “Bill, don’t be that way. He’s been very good to us. The girls love him. And, darling, he has made a great many things possible. When things were at their worst, he protected us and… and everything. Darling, please. He knows he’s only my Secondary, that you’ll always be first with me. He accepts that. Arthur admires you, Bill. He’s one of those saying you should be President.”