These Savage Futurians

by Philip E. High

  “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say he’d turn up something good?”

  “The device has yet to be tested, Mr. Prone,” said one of the experts a little tartly. “Isn’t that why we are here?”

  “But, of course—”

  “Then kindly refrain from holding up the proceedings with veiled sarcasms.”

  The device was tested and there were gasps of almost indignant disbelief. A conception like this couldn’t work, yet they were watching it.

  Only Ventnor was vaguely dissatisfied. “The materials employed, by their very nature, are short-life. We need a substance, possibly a plastic, atomically arranged, both for durability and strength in those conditions.”

  Prone looked at Walman of Plastics and said: “Well?”

  Surprisingly Walman smiled. “It’s going to be tough but I like a challenge. I’m going to need the co-operation of a top rate physicist, however.”

  Within four days, both departments were working at full pressure and coming up with some promising substances. At the end of the week they had it and Ventnor went in for the equivalent of mass production.

  Passing along the corridor a day later, however, he ran into Judith. It was the first time he had seen her since their parting some months before and he reddened uncomfortably.

  “Hello, Judith.”

  Her eyes widened and she stopped dead. “Did you say something—please?”

  “Yes, I said Hello’.”

  “You spoke to me?” She sounded choked. “Why, yes—shouldn’t I?”

  “I—I—” Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. “No one speaks to me. My name is on the notice board, didn’t you know?”

  “Yes, I knew but no one tells me to whom I should speak or should not speak.”

  She said, almost angrily: “Indirectly I tried to kill you, deliberately I tried to kill you. I hated you, don’t you understand that?”

  “Of course I understand it, Judith. It happened, it’s over and, as far as I am concerned, done with.”

  She shook her head in a puzzled way. “Why you, why should you speak, you had the least reason.” She averted her face slightly. “You must be a very kind man—I don’t think, until now, I ever really understood kindness. I always regarded it as sentimentality without depth—a form of weakness.”

  He said, “You’re not looking well, Judith.”

  “You’re trying to spare me embarrassment, aren’t you? The need to say what I should say, that I’m sorry. It’s too late now but I am sorry, Robert, not only sorry for what it brought me but sorry for—do you forgive me?”

  He smiled gently. “I said it was done with and you still look unwell.”

  “I have my off days, forget it.” She turned quickly. “Thank you, Robert, see you again, perhaps—”

  Later, with Gina, he was troubled and she was quick to notice.

  “Tell me about it.”

  He smiled. “We really don’t have to talk, do we? You know without me telling you.” He stroked her cheek with his fingertips. “You’re a very wonderful women.” He was suddenly worried again. “I met Judith this morning—Gina, I don’t know for certain but I think she’s got Metricitus.”

  She sat upright. “Then you must call section 7.”

  He nodded. “I could be mistaken, but we did happen to touch on it in biology. There was the characteristic expansion of the pupils and her hair looked land of limp.”

  She laid her hand on his arm. “Call the section.”

  “It’s not because I still feel anything for her. I love you.”

  “My darling, I know that.”

  “You’re wonderful, Gina.” He touched the caller. “Section 7, please.”

  The medico at the other end heard him out. “Well, of course, it was your duty to report it but it’s a very rare disease you know—who did you say it was?” He listened and said: “Oh, her!”

  Ventnor flushed. “Miss Lane, whatever happened in the past, has the same medical rights as anyone else on the base.”

  “All right, calm down, we’ll pull her in for a checkup right away.”

  An hour later, however, Culbertson himself called. “Thank you for your call to this section—” He hesitated. “I’m afraid we got a positive count.”

  “Good God-how?”

  “Well, we found a microscopic scratch on the third finger of her right hand. She wouldn’t have noticed it at the time. Later we found traces of the virus in one of the samples she was working on. There’s no cause for alarm, the disease as you know, enters the body through a wound. We have taken all the necessary sterilization precautions.”

  “Have you caught it in time?”

  “It’s too early to say.”

  “That means you haven’t.”

  “I did not say that, Mr. Ventnor. She must have contracted the disease only a few hours after her last medical so that it had a week to gain a hold.”

  “You know damn well what that means.”

  “I assure you that everything possible is being done.”

  “I believe that without your assurance—thank you for calling me.” He broke contact.

  “Gina, -she’s going to die. She’ll he there for four months getting thinner and weaker. It’s one of the new complaints, land of a muscular tuberculosis ending in total paralysis.”

  She looked up into his face. “Bob, darling, what is it?”

  He looked at her and away. “Gina, I’ve cooked up something—it’s what I’ve been working on—it could save her. On the other hand it’s not been tested properly and might very well kill her.”

  She took his hand. “You’ve got to try.”

  He smiled her twistedly. “If they’ll let me.”

  They didn’t let him. They were polite but firm although, unknown to him, their refusal sparked off one of the biggest departmental rows since the inception of the base.

  “I don’t care who you are, Mr. Graham.” Culbertson’s face was flushed. “You have no jurisdiction over my department in this matter.”

  “I am not trying to run your department at all, Mr.

  Culbertson. I am merely trying to put another point of view. The girl is going to die, isn’t she?”

  Culbertson looked sullen. “The odds are against her, yes.”

  “Can you offer a fifty-fifty chance of survival?”

  “Not today, perhaps tomorrow.”

  “Damn tomorrow, would this technique save her?”

  “For the hundredth time, I don’t know. It’s only been tested in a culture tray. One thing I do know, however, it might kill her—suppose it does kill her. Think about that, then next day, perhaps, someone comes up with something which we know would have saved her. Would you want that on your conscience, Mr. Graham?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. Neither will I like it, if by ignoring a possible method, the girl is allowed to die.”

  “You’re trying to dictate to me again, sir. Do you think I haven’t thought of that too.”

  “Of course you’ve thought of it, Mr. Culbertson and, like myself you’re not a hundred per cent sure you’re right.” He looked at the other directly. “I respect both your principles and your ethics. I like you as a man and I cannot speak too highly of your work here. Despite this, however, I am afraid I have to go over your head—I propose referring this matter to the International Medical Council.”

  Strangely, Culbertson said, “Thank you.” He lowered himself into the nearest chair. “Sooner or later I suppose I should have done that myself—yes, I’m not sure but while I carried the responsibility I had to act as I saw fit.”

  “And I respect you for it.” Graham leaned back in his chair and smiled tiredly. “I suppose in a way my conscience was pricking me also. You see, although Miss Lane’s conduct was inexcusable, it was I who imposed her punishment. Had she been mixing with her colleagues in a normal manner her complaint would have been spotted sooner and, perhaps treated in time.”

  Less than six hours later, the first call came: “This is the Frenc
h sector of Association. We have received your report together with certain reservations—is the patient aware both of the nature of her complaint and its outcome?”

  “The patient is a biologist; she has no illusions.”

  “That is not enough. The patient must not only be advised of her condition but the methods to be employed fully explained to her. If you are prepared to assure us on that point you may accept our reply as in the affirmative.”

  “You have my assurance.”

  After that Graham received three uncompromising negatives. Less than an hour later, however, he had five affirmatives. The last, surprisingly, came from Germany and was almost Gaelic in its enthusiasm. “Our sector regards this as a break-through of no mean order. Even, in the unhappy event of it proving unsuccessful in these circumstances, the possibilities are limitless.”

  The United States was almost equally enthusiastic but raised the same point as the French sector—the patient must be told and, in the event of a tie, given the deciding vote.

  About the middle of the following day, Culbertson called on Ventnor personally.

  “Well, you’re on.” He held out his hand. “Although I deplore the result personally, I wish you the very best of luck. No hard feelings?”

  11

  She lay in the narrow bed, no longer full-figured and voluptuous but thin, pale and very tired.

  He said, diffidently. “I’ve brought Gina with me, I hope you don’t mind.”

  She smiled faintly. “Mind? Truly I wish you every happiness. Let’s face it, I was a bitch.”

  “We’re being televised, Judith.”

  “I was still a bitch, Robert. It’s a mercy I know it at last.”

  “You know why I have come? They’ve told you a little?”

  “A little—you have some new technique which may cure or kill. I’m prepared to take a chance. I know what I’ve got.” She sighed. “No good saying I’m not frightened, particularly so as the mind remains clear and lucid to the last.”

  Strangely she smiled and looked up at him. “You’re scared too.”

  He nodded quickly and said, “I have to explain the techniques employed, not only to give you the right to refuse but for the benefit of all those who are watching— you’re not too tired?”

  “No, I’m wide awake, another aspect of the disease, one gets very little sleep.”

  “Very well, Judith, let’s begin.” He held up a photograph. “You will remember this—a picture of Hartman’s virus taken with the then-existing techniques.”

  He paused and produced another photograph. “The same virus taken by new methods.” He drew a deep breath and hurried on, conscious that his voice was quavering slightly.

  “I’ll tell you how it was done. I constructed a micro-robotic and programmed it to build another micro-robotic ten times smaller than the original. The second micro-robotic was equipped with a tele-camera. I photographed the virus, beamed the picture back to the first one which in turn beamed it back to existing equipment—follow me?”

  She nodded. “I wish I’d had equipment like that.”

  “Never mind that now.” He was almost brusque and his hands were shaking so much that he was compelled to signal an orderly to bring the remaining equipment to the table.

  He cleared his throat quickly. “This black box here, believe it or not, is a micro-robotic auto-factory designed to mass produce parts, program tapes for the monitors and micro-robotic workers which, in turn, produced this.” He pointed to small object exactly similar. “As you see, it has been reduced to the size of the ancient match box.”

  He paused and cleared his throat nervously again. “This second auto-factory produces microbiotics of a special nature.”

  He paused again and said, almost calmly: “I must digress here to pay proper tribute to the experts both in plastic and in nuclear physics whose work made the construction of these sub-microscopic robots possible. It was they alone who came up with durable substances capable of being moulded to these conditions.”

  He turned again to the objects on the table and pointed to the smallest black box. “This auto-factory has one task-mass-producing these.”

  The far wall of the room lit suddenly and the viewers saw a curious gray pear-shaped object with a tube at the thicker end.

  “This object, strictly speaking, is a constructed microorganism about the size of Hartman’s virus. It is molded from special plastics, the molecules of which have been atomically arranged for durability in these conditions.”

  He paused and almost managed a smile. “It is also a warrior robot.”

  Again he paused and drew a deep audible breath. “Impressed on the recognition tapes of this robot is a picture of the Metricitus spirochaeta!”

  He walked over to the picture and pointed. “This pointed tube at the front of the robot is a contact device. It is designed to release on contact with the spirochaeta a lethal charge of electricity electronically restricted to a nervous system, or it you prefer it, the substance of the hostile microorganism.”

  He turned to Judith and said, gently, “Have you followed me?”

  “Yes, I’ve followed you.” She looked puzzled.

  “Judith, this auto-factory has produced sub-microscopic robots in hundred of millions. I propose injecting a few million into your blood stream in a special solution and letting them seek out and destroy the spirochaeta which are causing your illness. This method has been tested and proved in an infected culture but never in a living organism —do you fully understand me?”

  She nodded, very slowly. “Yes—yes, I understand you.” Then, thoughtfully: “It’s a gamble, isn’t it? If nothing is done I shall die anyway—go ahead, what have I got to lose?”

  “Thank you, Judith—for trusting me.” He made a brief signal with his hand and Latimer entered from an open side door almost immediately.

  “Are you quite sure, Judith?”

  “Quite, Mr. Latimer.”

  “Very well. I am now going to inject you in the upper arm but I must warn you in advance not to expect miracles.”

  He inserted the needle skilfully and continued: “You will not rise from your bed in half an hour and do a war dance. In fact it is very doubtful if you will be aware of any change at all for at least a week.

  “These micro-robotics have an effective life of only six hours, after which they dissolve into harmless substances and are disposed of by the body.

  “Every six hours, therefore, I shall have to introduce another host of fighters into your bloodstream to keep up the good work. This alone will not spell your recovery but it should reduce the numbers of hostile organisms to controllable limits. Once this is achieved orthodox medicine and the natural reflexes of the body should prove decisive.”

  He patted her shoulder and smiled. “Would you like to see what is going on? Look at the wall facing your bed.”

  The wall faded, became a vague outline which hardened slowly into a tunnel. A murky tunnel in which half-visible shapes moved sluggishly like thick and muddy water.

  “Not a very clear picture, is it? It is the interior of one of your veins—ah, that’s a little better.”

  It was more than better. Although it still looked vague and muddled, experts among the watchers could clearly distinguish the red and white corpuscles.

  “Ah! One of your uninvited guests.” Latimer’s voice cracked a little with excitement. “See it? That thing like a coded spring, up on the left there, half-embedded in the wall of the vein. Keep your eyes on it as one of the microscopic robots may have detected it, a limited number are equipped with tele-cameras for just that purpose.”

  As he spoke the picture seemed to split in two, one half concentrating on the spirochaeta and the other illumination the now familiar pear-shaped micro-robotic. This drifted almost lazily with the bloodstream, then, when it was almost level with the spirochaeta, stopped.

  It turned with almost painful slowness then appeared to jet itself abruptly at its target.

  Nothing
spectacular happened. The tube of the micro-robotic touched briefly and then it allowed itself to be carried away.

  After a brief period, however, the spirochaeta appeared to go limp. It was ejected from, or could not hold itself to, the wall of the vein and drifted away from it.

  The picture was maintained long enough for the viewers to see it run into a white corpuscle which immediately began to absorb it.

  As the picture disappeared, Latimer said, “My God, it’s really working!”

  Judith looked up at Ventnor, there was a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “If it works, I don’t deserve it.”

  “Don’t say that, everyone has the right to live.”

  “I tried to deny you that right.”

  He made an almost angry gesture. “Not now, Judith! Let us both pray that it works.”

  Later that day he said to Gina, “If it fails, I’ve betrayed her. I’ve used her as a guinea pig to prove a theory.”

  “No, my darling, no—come and sit down.” She put- her arms round his neck. “Rest, you’re tired and over-wrought.”

  He smiled twistedly. “I’m going to stay that way for at least a week.…”

  Had he known what was going on far out in the Atlantic he would have been even more over-wrought.

  Kerenski, an expert, tossed a small stone on Skeld’s desk. “I’ve had that on a dozen instruments, it’s ‘live’.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s a normal stone brought back in a soil sample from the alleged grave of your specimen, Robert Ventnor.”

  “Get to the point.” Skeld was harsh. He had a lot on his mind.

  “Very well, this stone is giving off the ‘personality aura’ of this supposedly deceased specimen with almost the same strength as if he were still alive.”

  Skeld paled. “What do you conclude from that?”

  Kerenski smiled without humour. “Well, he could have been buried alive for five years which is absurd. Alternatively, he could have been alive all the time and sat on his own grave for about an hour just before we investigated. No, the only conclusion, and a frightening one, is that a device was placed in the grave to simulate a personality aura. Unfortunately this stone was near it and, unlike the soil, retained the emanations from this device.”