“Miss Falcaro may be dying,” Charles said. His own throat felt as though it had been gone over with a cobbler’s rasp. “I don’t have to tell you your life won’t be worth a dime if she dies and it gets back to Syndic Territory. She’s got to be moved and she’s got to have medical attention.”
“Death threat from the dago?” Regan was amused. “I have it on your own testimony that the Syndic is merely morale and people and credit—not a formidable organization. Yes, there was a mike in here. One reason for your discomfort. You’ll be gratified to learn that I thought most of your conversation decidedly dull. However, the lady will be of no use to us dead and we’re now in the Seaway entering Lake Michigan. I suppose it can’t do any harm to move you two. Pick her up, will you? I’ll let you lead the way—and I’ll remind you that I may not, as the lady said, be a four-goal polo player but I am a high expert with the handgun. Get moving.”
Charles did not think he could pick his own feet up, but the thought of pleading weakness to Regan was unbearable. He could try. Staggering, he got Lee Falcaro over his shoulder and through the door. Regan courteously stood aside and murmured: “Straight ahead and up the ramp. I’m giving you my own cabin. We’ll be docking soon enough; I’ll make out.”
Charles dropped her onto a sybaritic bed in a small but lavishly-appointed cabin. Regan whistled up a deckhand and a ship’s officer of some sort, who arrived with a medicine chest. “Do what you can for her, mister,” he told the officer. And to the deckhand: “Just watch them. They aren’t to touch anything. If they give you trouble, you’re free to punch them around a bit.” He left, whistling.
The officer fussed unhappily over the medicine chest and stalled by sponging off Lee Falcaro’s face and throat. The deckhand watched impassively. He was a six-footer, and he hadn’t spent days inhaling casing-head fumes. The trip-hammer pounding behind Charles’s eyes seemed to be worsening with the fresher air. He collapsed into a seat and croaked, with shut eyes: “While you’re trying to figure out the vomiting, can I have a handful of aspirins?”
“Eh? Nothing was said about you. You were in Number Three with her? I suppose it’ll be all right. Here.” He poured a dozen tablets into Charles’ hand. “Get him some water, you.” The deckhand brought a glass of water from the adjoining lavatory and Charles washed down some of the tablets. The officer was reading a booklet, worry written on his face. “Do you know any medicine?” he finally asked.
The hard-outlined, kidney-shaped ache was beginning to diffuse through Charles’ head, more general now and less excruciating. He felt deliciously sleepy, but roused himself to answer: “Some athletic trainer stuff. I don’t know—morphine? Curare?”
The officer ruffled through the booklet. “Nothing about vomiting,” he said. “But it says curare for muscular cramp and I guess that’s what’s going on. A lipoid suspension to release it slowly into the bloodstream and give the irritation time to subside. Anyway, I can’t kill her if I watch the dose.…”
Charles, through half-opened eyes, saw Lee Falcaro’s arm reach behind the officer’s back to his medicine chest. The deckhand’s eyes were turning to the bed—Charles heaved himself to his feet, skyrockets going off again through his head, and started for the lavatory. The deckhand grabbed his arm. “Rest, mister! Where do you think you’re going?”
“Another glass of water—”
“I’ll get it. You heard my orders.”
Charles subsided. When he dared to look again, Lee’s arm lay alongside her body and the officer was triple-checking dosages in his booklet against a pressurized hypodermic spray. The officer sighed and addressed Lee: “You won’t even feel this. Relax.” He read his setting on the spray again, checked it again against the booklet. He touched the syringe to the skin of Lee’s arm and thumbed open the valve. It hissed for a moment and Charles knew submicroscopic particles of the medication had been blasted under Lee’s skin too fast for nerves to register the shock.
His glass of water came and he gulped it greedily. The officer packed the pressurized syringe away, folded the chest and said to both of them, rather vaguely: “That should do it. If, uh, if anything happens—or if it doesn’t work—call me and I’ll try something else. Morphine, maybe.”
He left and Charles slumped in the chair, the pain ebbing and sleep beginning to flow over him. Not yet, he told himself. She hooked something from the chest. He said to the deckhand: “Can I clean the lady and myself up?”
“Go ahead, mister. You can use it. Just don’t try anything.”
The man lounged in the door-frame of the lavatory alternately studying Charles at the wash-basin and Lee on the bed. Charles took off a heavy layer of oily grease from himself and then took washing tissues to the bed. Lee Falcaro’s spasms were tapering off. As he washed her, she managed a smile and an unmistakable wink.
“You folks married?” the deckhand asked.
“No,” Charles said. Weakly she held up her right arm for the washing tissue. As he scrubbed the hand, he felt a small cylinder smoothly transferred from her palm to his. He slid it into a pocket and finished the job.
The officer popped in again with a carton of milk. “Any better, miss?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Good. Try to drink this.” Immensely set up by his success in treatment, he hovered over her for a quarter of an hour getting the milk down a sip at a time. It stayed down. He left trailing a favorable prognosis. Meanwhile, Charles had covertly examined Lee’s booty: a pressurized syringe labeled morphine sulfate sol. It was full and ready. He cracked off the protective cap and waited his chance.
It came when Lee grimaced at him and called the deckhand in a feeble murmur. She continued to murmur so indistinctly that he bent over trying to catch the words. Charles leaned forward and emptied the syringe at one inch range into the taut seat of the deckhand’s pants. He scratched absently and said to Lee: “You’ll have to talk up, lady.” Then he giggled, looked bewildered and collapsed on the floor, staring, coked to the eyebrows.
Lee painfully sat up on the bed. “Porthole,” she said.
Charles went to it and struggled with the locking lugs. It opened—and an alarm bell began to clang through the ship. Now he saw the hair-fine, broken wire. An alarm trip-wire.
Feet thundered outside and the glutinous voice of Jimmy Regan was heard: “Wait, you damn fools! You in there—is everything all right? Did they try to pull something?”
Charles kept silent and shook his head at the girl. He picked up a chair and stood by the door. The glutinous voice again, in a mumble that didn’t carry through—and the door sprang open. Charles brought the chair down in a murderous chop, conscious only that it seemed curiously light. There was an impact and the head fell.
It was Regan, with a drawn gun. It had been Regan. His skull was smashed before he knew it. Charles felt as though he had all the time in the world. He picked up the gun to a confused roar like a slowed-down sound track and emptied it into the corridor. It had been a full automatic, but the fifteen shots seemed as well-spaced as a ceremonial salute. Regan, in his vanity, wore two guns. Charles scooped up the other and said to Lee: “Come on.”
He knew she was following as he raced down the cleared corridor and down the ramp, back to the compartment in which they had been locked. Red danger lights burned on the walls. Charles flipped the pistol to semi-automatic as they passed a red-painted bulkhead with valves and gages sprouting from it. He turned and fired three deliberate shots into it. The last was drowned out by a dull roar as gasoline fumes exploded. Pipe fittings and fragments of plate whizzed about them like bullets as they raced on.
Somebody ahead loomed, yelling querulously: “What the hell was that, Mac? What blew?”
“Where’s the reactor room?” Charles demanded, jamming the pistol into his chest. The man gulped and pointed.
“Take me there. Fast.”
“Now look, Mac—”
Charles told him in a few incisive details where and how he was going to be shot. The man we
nt white and led them down the corridor and into the reactor room. Three white-coated men with the aloof look of reactor specialists stared at them as they bulled into the spotless chamber.
The oldest sniffed: “And what, may I ask, are you crewmen doing in—”
Lee slammed the door behind them and said: “Sound the radiation alarm.”
“Certainly not! You must be the couple we—”
“Sound the radiation alarm.” She picked up a pair of dividers from the plot board and approached the technician with murder on her face. He gaped until she poised the needle points before his eyes and repeated: “Sound the radiation alarm.” Nobody in the room, including Charles, had the slightest doubt that the points would sink into the technician’s eyeballs if he refused.
“Do what she says, Will,” he mumbled, his eyes crossing on the dividers. “For God’s sake, do what she says. She’s crazy.”
One of the men moved, very cautiously, watching Charles and the gun, to a red handle and pulled it down. A ferro-concrete barrier rose to wall off the chamber and the sine-curve wail of a standard radioactivity warning began to howl mournfully through the ship.
“Dump the reactor metal,” Charles said. His eyes searched for the exit, and found it—a red-painted breakaway panel, standard for a hot lab.
A technician wailed: “We can’t do that! We can’t do that! A million bucks of thorium with a hundred years of life in it—have a heart, mister! They’ll crucify us!”
“They can dredge for it,” Charles said. “Dump the metal.”
“Dump the metal,” Lee said. She hadn’t moved.
The senior technician’s eyes were still on the bright needle points. He was crying silently. “Dump it,” he said.
“Okay, chief. Your responsibility, remember.”
“Dump it!” wailed the senior.
The technician did something technical at the control board. After a moment the steady rumbling of the turbines ceased and the ship’s deck began to wallow underfoot.
“Hit the panel, Lee,” Charles said. She did, running. He followed her through the oval port. It was like an open-bottomed diving bell welded to the hull. There were large, luminous cleats for pulling yourself down through the water, under the rim of the bell. He dropped the pistol into the water, breathed deeply a couple of times and began to climb down. There was no sign of Lee.
He kicked up through the dark water on a long slant away from the ship. It might be worse. With a fire and a hot-lab alarm and a dead chief aboard, the crew would have things on their mind besides looking for bobbing heads.
He broke the surface and treaded water to make a minimum target. He did not turn to the ship. His dark hair would be less visible than his white face. And if he was going to get a burst of machine-gun bullets through either, he didn’t want to know about it. Ahead he saw Lee’s blonde hair spread on the water for a moment and then it vanished. He breathed hugely, ducked and swam under water toward it.
When he rose next a sheet of flame was lightening the sky and the oily reek of burning hydrocarbons tainted the air. He dove again, and this time caught up with Lee. Her face was bone-white and her eyes blank. Where she was drawing her strength from he could not guess. Behind them the ship sent up an oily plume and the sine-curve wail of the radioactivity warning could be faintly heard. Before them a dim shore stretched.
He gripped her naked arm, roughened by the March waters of Lake Michigan, bent it around his neck and struck off for the shore. His lungs were bursting in his chest and the world was turning gray-black before his burning eyes. He heaved his tired arm through the water as though each stroke would be his last, but the last stroke, by some miracle, never was the last.
XIX
It hadn’t been easy to get time off from the oil-painting factory. Ken Oliver was a little late when he slid into the aseptic-smelling waiting room of the Michigan City Medical Center. A parabolic mike in the ceiling trained itself on the heat he radiated and followed him across the floor to a chair. A canned voice said: “State your business, please.”
He started a little and said in the general direction of the mike: “I’m Ken Oliver. A figure man in the Blue Department, Picasso Oils and Etching Corporation. Dr. Latham sent me here for—what do you call it?—a biopsy.”
“Thank you, please be seated.”
He smiled because he was seated already and picked up a magazine, the current copy of the Illinois Sporting News, familiarly known as the Green Sheet. Everybody in Mob Territory read it. The fingers of the blind spelled out its optimism and its selections at Hawthorne in Braille. If you were not only blind but fingerless, there was a talking edition that read itself aloud to you from tape.
He riffled through the past performances and selections to the articles. This month’s lead was—Thank God I am Dying of Throat Cancer.
He leaned back in the chair dizzily, the waiting room becoming gray mist around him. No, he thought. No. It couldn’t be that. All it could be was a little sore on the back of his throat—no more than that. Just a little sore on the back of his throat. He’d been a fool to go to Latham. The fees were outrageous and he was behind, always a little behind, on his bills. But cancer—so much of it around—and the drugs didn’t seem to help any more.… But Latham had almost promised him it was non-malignant.
“Mr. Oliver,” the loudspeaker said, “please go to Dr. Riordan’s office, Number Ten.”
Riordan was younger than he. That was supposed to be bad in a general practitioner, good in a specialist. And Riordan was a specialist—pathology. A sour-faced young specialist.
“Good morning. Sit here. Open your mouth. Wider than that, and relax. Relax; your glottis is locked.”
Oliver couldn’t protest around the plastic-and-alcohol taste of the tongue depressor. There was a sudden coldness and a metallic snickthat startled him greatly; then Riordan took the splint out of his mouth and ignored him as he summoned somebody over his desk set. A young man, even younger than Riordan, came in. “Freeze, section and stain this right away,” the pathologist said, handing him a forceps from which a small blob dangled. “Have them send up the Rotino charts, three hundred to nine hundred inclusive.”
He began to fill out charts, still ignoring Oliver, who sat and sweated bullets for ten minutes. Then he left and was back in five minutes more.
“You’ve got it,” he said shortly. “It’s operable and you won’t lose much tissue.” He scribbled on a sheet of paper and handed it to Oliver. The painter numbly read: “…anterior…epithelioma…metastases…giant cells.…”
Riordan was talking again: “Give this to Latham. It’s my report. Have him line up a surgeon. As to the operation, I say the sooner the better unless you care to lose your larynx. That will be fifty dollars.”
“Fifty dollars,” the painter said blankly. “But Dr. Latham told me—” He trailed off and got out his check book. Only thirty-two in the account, but he would deposit his paycheck today which would bring it up. It was after three so his check wouldn’t go in today—he wrote out the slip slowly and carefully.
Riordan took it, read it suspiciously, put it away and said: “Good day, Mr. Oliver.”
Oliver wandered from the Medical Center into the business heart of the art colony. The Van Gogh Works on the left must have snagged the big order from Mexico—their chimneys were going full blast and the reek of linseed oil and turps was strong in the air. But the poor beggars on the line at Rembrandts Ltd. across the square were out of luck. They’d been laid off for a month now, with no sign of a work call yet. Somebody jostled him off the sidewalk, somebody in a great hurry. Oliver sighed. The place was getting more like Chicago every day. He sometimes thought he had made art his line not because he had any special talent but because artists were relatively easy-going people, not so quick to pop you in the nose, not such aggressive drunks when they were drunks.
Quit the stalling, a thin, cold voice inside him said. Get over to Latham. The man said “The sooner the better.”
He went over to Latham whose waiting room was crowded with irascible women. After an hour, he got to see the old man and hand him the slip.
Latham said: “Don’t worry about a thing. Riordan’s a good man. If he says it’s operable, it’s operable. Now we want Finsen to do the whittling. With Finsen operating, you won’t have to worry about a thing. He’s a good man. His fee’s fifteen hundred.”
“Oh, my God!” Oliver gulped.
“What’s the matter—haven’t you got it?”
To his surprise and terror, Oliver found himself giving Dr. Latham a hysterical stump speech about how he didn’t have it and who did have it and how could anybody get ahead with the way prices were shooting up and everybody gouged you every time you turned around and yes, that went for doctors too and if you did get a couple of bucks in your pocket the salesmen heard about it and battered at you until you put down an installment on some piece of junk you didn’t want to get them out of your hair and what the hell kind of world was this anyway.
Latham listened, smiling and nodding, with, as Oliver finally realized, his hearing aid turned off. His voice ran down and Latham said briskly: “All right, then. You just come around when you’ve arranged the financial details and I’ll contact Finsen. He’s a good man; you won’t have to worry about a thing. And remember: the sooner, the better.”
Oliver slumped out of the office and went straight to the Mob Building, office of the Regan Benevolent Fund. An acid-voiced woman there turned him down indignantly: “You should be ashamed of yourself trying to draw on the Fund when there are people in actual want who can’t be accommodated! No, I don’t want to hear any more about it if you please. There are others waiting.”
Waiting for what? The same treatment?
Oliver realized with a shock that he hadn’t phoned his foreman as promised, and it was four minutes to five. He did a dance of agonized impatience outside a telephone booth occupied by a fat woman. She noticed him, pursed her lips, hung up—and stayed in the booth. She began a slow search of her hand-bag, found coins and slowly dialed a new number. She gave him a malevolent grin as he walked away, crushed. He had a good job record, but that was no way to keep it good. One black mark, another black mark, and one day—bingo.
The Sixth Science Fiction Megapack Page 49
