by Lisa Yaszek
Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy. “Wonderful stuff. You’ll have to show us how to make it.”
Len turned back to him. “You people live off the country, right? You hunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one of those steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens?”
“Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn’t digest. You’d stay hungry.”
“Why?” Len was aggrieved.
“Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Different amino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in the carbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here until you are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till then you’d starve to death on a full stomach.”
Pat’s side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays, but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to one side. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn.
“Test-tube evolution?” Max repeated. “What’s that? I thought you people had no doctors.”
“It’s a story.” Pat leaned back again. “Alexander P. Mead, the head of the Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personality and no man to argue with. He didn’t want us to go through the struggle of killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling the face of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decided that he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He did it all right.”
“Did which?” asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear.
“Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells—”
She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in the explanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt to Minos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death and hunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cells have the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence, hunting, eating and reproducing alone.
Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes. He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousand generations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alien indigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to the cell that reluctantly learned to absorb it.
“Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolution in six months,” Pat Mead finished. “When they reached to a point where they would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people he had taken them from.”
“What was supposed to happen then?” Max asked, leaning forward.
“I don’t know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much about it, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wandering ha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke his neck at the age of eighty.”
“A character,” Max said.
Why was she afraid? “It worked then?”
“Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlers didn’t want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. It worked. The Meads could hunt and plant while the other settlers were still eating out of hydroponics tanks.”
“It worked,” said Max to Len. “You’re a plant geneticist and a tank culture expert. There’s a job for you.”
“Uh-uh!” Len backed away. “It sounds like a medical problem to me. Human cell control—right up your alley.”
“It is a one-way street,” Pat warned. “Once it is done, you won’t be able to digest ship food. I’ll get no good from this protein. I ate it just for the taste.”
Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. “Three of the twelve test hamsters have died,” he reported, and turned to Pat. “Your people carry the germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters were injected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. We can’t settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would they object?”
“We wouldn’t want to give you folks germs,” Pat smiled. “Anything for safety. But there’ll have to be a vote on it first.”
The doctors went to Reno Ulrich’s table and walked with him to the hangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, mingle with the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote before returning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours on the hour or run the risk of disease.
Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as a mechanic for the expedition. “This gives me a chance to study their mores.” He winked wickedly. “I may not be back for several nights.” They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went over to the laboratory for a look at the hamsters.
Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control; the other two had been given shots of Pat’s blood from before he entered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently a hamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Three were still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, but recovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptive and counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against the attack.
June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again. They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready to dissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest dose of adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It was hairless and pink, like a still-born baby.
“We can find no micro-organisms,” George Barton said. “None at all. Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia. Fever only for the ones that fought it off.” He handed Max some temperature charts and graphs of blood counts.
June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were her field; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him with laboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall, then abruptly lightened.
Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeous Shelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man. It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look upon and talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendous vitality. . . . It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a hero out of the pages of a book—Deerslayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke.
She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to join them, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casual lift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back.
“Hello, June,” said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as they passed he lightly touched her arm.
“Oh, pioneer!” she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile, and knew that he had heard.
That night she had a nightmare. She was running down a long corridor looking for Max, but every man she came to was a big bronze man with red hair and bright blue eyes who grinned at her.
The pink hamster! She woke suddenly, feeling as if alarm bells had been ringing, and listened carefully, but there was no sound. She had had a nightmare, she told herself, but alarm bells were still ringing in her unconscious. Something was wrong.
Lying still and trying to preserve the images, she groped for a meaning, but the mood faded under the cold touch of reason. Damn intuitive thinking! A pink hamster! Why did the unconscious have to be so vague? She fell asleep again and forgot.
They had lunch with Pat Mead that day, and after it was over Pat delayed June with a hand on her shoulder and looked down at her for a moment. “I want you, June,” he said and then turned away, answering the hails of a party at another table as if he had not spoken. She stood shaken, and then walked to the door where Max waited.
She was particularly affectionate with Max the rest of the day, and it pleased him. He would not have been if he had known why. She tried to forget Pat’s blunt statement.
June was in the laboratory with Max, watching the growth of a small tan
k culture of the alien protoplasm from a Minos weed, and listening to Len Marlow pour out his troubles.
“And Elsie tags around after that big goof all day, listening to his stories. And then she tells me I’m just jealous, I’m imagining things!” He passed his hand across his eyes. “I came away from Earth to be with Elsie. . . . I’m getting a headache. Look, can’t you persuade Pat to cut it out, June? You and Max are his friends.”
“Here, have an aspirin,” June said. “We’ll see what we can do.”
“Thanks.” Len picked up his tank culture and went out, not at all cheered.
Max sat brooding over the dials and meters at his end of the laboratory, apparently sunk in thought. When Len had gone, he spoke almost harshly.
“Why encourage the guy? Why let him hope?”
“Found out anything about the differences in protoplasm?” she evaded.
“Why let him kid himself? What chance has he got against that hunk of muscle and smooth talk?”
“But Pat isn’t after Elsie,” she protested.
“Every scatter-brained woman on this ship is trailing after Pat with her tongue hanging out. Brant St. Clair is in the bar right now. He doesn’t say what he is drinking about, but do you think Pat is resisting all these women crowding down on him?”
“There are other things besides looks and charm,” she said, grimly trying to concentrate on a slide under her binocular microscope.
“Yeah, and whatever they are, Pat has them, too. Who’s more competent to support a woman and a family on a frontier planet than a handsome bruiser who was born here?”
“I meant,” June spun around on her stool with unexpected passion, “there is old friendship, and there’s fondness, and memories, and loyalty!” She was half shouting.
“They’re not worth much on the second-hand market,” Max said. He was sitting slumped on his lab stool, looking dully at his dials. “Now I’m getting a headache!” He smiled ruefully. “No kidding, a real headache. And over other people’s troubles yet!”
Other people’s troubles. . . . She got up and wandered out into the long curving halls. “I want you June,” Pat’s voice repeated in her mind. Why did the man have to be so overpoweringly attractive, so glaring a contrast to Max? Why couldn’t the universe manage to run on without generating troublesome love triangles?
She walked up the curving ramps to the dining hall where they had eaten and drunk and talked yesterday. It was empty except for one couple talking forehead to forehead over cold coffee.
She turned and wandered down the long easy spiral of corridor to the pharmacy and dispensary. It was empty. George was probably in the test lab next door, where he could hear if he was wanted. The automatic vendor of harmless euphorics, stimulants and opiates stood in the corner, brightly decorated in pastel abstract designs, with its automatic tabulator graph glowing above it.
Max had a headache, she remembered. She recorded her thumbprint in the machine and pushed the plunger for a box of aspirins, trying to focus her attention on the problem of adapting the people of the ship to the planet Minos. An aquarium tank with a faint solution of histamine would be enough to convert a piece of human skin into a community of voracious active phagocytes individually seeking something to devour, but could they eat enough to live away from the rich sustaining plasma of human blood?
After the aspirins, she pushed another plunger for something for herself. Then she stood looking at it, a small box with three pills in her hand—Theobromine, a heart strengthener and a confidence-giving euphoric all in one, something to steady shaky nerves. She had used it before only in emergency. She extended a hand and looked at it. It was trembling. Damn triangles!
While she was looking at her hand there was a click from the automatic drug vendor. It summed the morning use of each drug in the vendors throughout the ship, and recorded it in a neat addition to the end of each graph line. For a moment she could not find the green line for anodynes and the red line for stimulants, and then she saw that they went almost straight up.
There were too many being used—far too many to be explained by jealousy or psychosomatic peevishness. This was an epidemic, and only one disease was possible!
The disinfecting of Pat had not succeeded. Nucleocat Cureall, killer of all infections, had not cured! Pat had brought melting sickness into the ship with him!
Who had it?
The drugs vendor glowed cheerfully, uncommunicative. She opened a panel in its side and looked in on restless interlacing cogs, and on the inside of the door saw printed some directions. . . . “To remove or examine records before reaching end of the reel—”
After a few fumbling minutes she had the answer. In the cafeteria at breakfast and lunch, thirty-eight men out of the forty-eight aboard ship had taken more than his norm of stimulant. Twenty-one had taken aspirin as well. The only woman who had made an unusual purchase was herself!
She remembered the hamsters that had thrown off the infection with a short sharp fever, and checked back in the records to the day before. There was a short rise in aspirin sales to women at late afternoon. The women were safe.
It was the men who had melting sickness!
Melting sickness killed in hours, according to Pat Mead. How long had the men been sick?
As she was leaving, Jerry came into the pharmacy, recorded his thumbprint and took a box of aspirin from the machine.
She felt all right. Self-control was working well and it was pleasant still to walk down the corridor smiling at the people who passed. She took the emergency elevator to the control room and showed her credentials to the technician on watch.
“Medical Emergency.” At a small control panel in the corner was a large red button, precisely labeled. She considered it and picked up the control room phone. This was the hard part, telling someone, especially someone who had it—Max.
She dialed, and when the click on the end of the line showed he had picked the phone up, she told Max what she had seen.
“No women, just the men,” he repeated. “That right?”
“Yes.”
“Probably it’s chemically alien, inhibited by one of the female sex hormones. We’ll try sex hormone shots, if we have to. Where are you calling from?”
She told him.
“That’s right. Give Nucleocat Cureall another chance. It might work this time. Push that button.”
She went to the panel and pushed the large red button. Through the long height of the Explorer, bells woke to life and began to ring in frightened clangor, emergency doors thumped shut, mechanical apparatus hummed into life and canned voices began to give rapid urgent directions.
A plague had come.
*
She obeyed the mechanical orders, went out into the hall and walked in line with the others. The captain walked ahead of her and the gorgeous Shelia Davenport fell into step beside her. “I look like a positive hag this morning. Does that mean I’m sick? Are we all sick?”
June shrugged, unwilling to say what she knew.
Others came out of all rooms into the corridor, thickening the line. They could hear each room lock as the last person left it, and then, faintly, the hiss of disinfectant spray. Behind them, on the heels of the last person in line, segments of the ship slammed off and began to hiss.
They wound down the spiral corridor until they reached the medical treatment section again, and there they waited in line.
“It won’t scar my arms, will it?” asked Shelia apprehensively, glancing at her smooth, lovely arms.
The mechanical voice said, “Next. Step inside, please, and stand clear of the door.”
“Not a bit,” June reassured Shelia, and stepped into the cubicle.
Inside, she was directed from cubicle to cubicle and given the usual buffeting by sprays and radiation, had blood samples taken and was injected with Nucleocat and a series of other prot
ectives. At last she was directed through another door into a tiny cubicle with a chair.
“You are to wait here,” commanded the recorded voice metallically. “In twenty minutes the door will unlock and you may then leave. All people now treated may visit all parts of the ship which have been protected. It is forbidden to visit any quarantined or unsterile part of the ship without permission from the medical officers.”
Presently the door unlocked and she emerged into bright lights again, feeling slightly battered.
She was in the clinic. A few men sat on the edge of beds and looked sick. One was lying down. Brant and Bess St. Clair sat near each other, not speaking.
Approaching her was George Barton, reading a thermometer with a puzzled expression.
“What is it, George?” she asked anxiously.
“Some of the women have slight fever, but it’s going down. None of the fellows have any—but their white count is way up, their red count is way down, and they look sick to me.”
She approached St. Clair. His usually ruddy cheeks were pale, his pulse was light and too fast, and his skin felt clammy. “How’s the headache? Did the Nucleocat treatment help?”
“I feel worse, if anything.”
“Better set up beds,” she told George. “Get everyone back into the clinic.”
“We’re doing that,” George assured her. “That’s what Hal is doing.”
She went back to the laboratory. Max was pacing up and down, absently running his hands through his black hair until it stood straight up. He stopped when he saw her face, and scowled thoughtfully. “They are still sick?” It was more a statement than a question.
She nodded.
“The Cureall didn’t cure this time,” he muttered. “That leaves it up to us. We have melting sickness and according to Pat and the hamsters, that leaves us less than a day to find out what it is and learn how to stop it.”
