‘The reason why ninety-five percent of those affected are showing nothing more than minor gut sensitivity is because they haven’t got anything worse than a harmless gut infection. The disease that killed Varly is only incipient. We—you and I and the rest of the healthy ones—haven’t even got that. In us, the bacteria and the viruses are completely quiescent. No virus infection, no bacterial multiplication preparatory to virus infection.’
‘It still only half makes sense,’ I said. ‘That may well be a very accurate account as to how things are happening, from a medical point of view. But it lacks logic.’
Charlot looked into my face, and behind his watery eyes I could practically see the relays clicking at the speed of light. But there was a hint of rage and disappointment about his expression which told me that it didn’t compute. He was riding high as a kite on the tide of his own genius, but he couldn’t quite solve the equations. He knew what was happening, and I was as sure as he was that he had it all figured right, but the answer just wouldn’t fall out. Always and forever this world was just one step ahead of Charlot’s logic. We kept finding more and more, digging deeper and deeper, but it just wouldn’t fall out.
‘It’s here,’ he said, cupping his hand. ‘But I just can’t quite grasp it.’
The tone of his voice suggested that he believed his illness to be responsible for the fact that he couldn’t quite grasp it. It was obvious that he thought he ought to have the whole thing off pat. He might have been right. A healthy Charlot might have anticipated this two days ago and stopped the whole thing. Who could tell?
‘Let’s not, for the moment, bother about why,’ I said. ‘Let’s think whether there’s anything constructive we can do about it.’
‘I agree entirely,’ said Markoff, who had been visibly put out by Charlot’s pent-up emotion and gesture of frustration.
‘Prepare the immuno-serums,’ said Charlot.
Markoff nodded. ‘That is already being done,’ he said. ‘A matter of course. But so many of them...a thousand men and more to treat...we have only limited facilities here. It will take time we simply do not have. We will also treat the symptoms of those who are ill as they appear. But this too takes time, and men, and facilities which we do not have. There is a limit to what we can accomplish. There will be no miracles.’
Charlot nodded agreement. ‘There will be no miracles.’
A soldier appeared from the airlock, with an expression of some agitation on his face.
‘Dr Markoff!’ he said.
‘Get out,’ said Markoff, hardly glancing toward the man. ‘I told you that I was not concerned with Captain Ullman’s demands and I am not.’
‘It’s not that,’ said the soldier. ‘Ullman’s collapsed. A few moments after he finished speaking over the call circuit. He’s unconscious. We moved him to his bed, but I think he’s dying.’
I exchanged a glance of surprise with Charlot. This was the man who had held out to the last against believing in the plague. I could hardly have thought of a more appropriate second victim, if there had to be a second victim. But why Ullman? What had triggered the virus from stage one to stage two?
‘Oh, my God,’ I said suddenly. ‘I know why.’
‘Why what?’ asked Markoff.
‘I know why the diseases behave the way they do.’
I paused, not because I wanted to create suspense, but because I wanted to sort out the words.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Varly is dead. He killed an alien. The plague struck hard out at the scientific camp—among the biologists, not the linguists. Four Aegis people are sick. Four Aegis people were involved in blowing up the Caradoc equipment. Johnny is ill. Johnny was in a fight with one of the Caradoc men. Over half the soldiers are ill—professional soldiers. Ullman collapsed—moments after throwing a fit of anger at us. We didn’t get the law of life quite right, Titus. It’s: Live in peace or not at all.’
‘The complexity of the virus,’ murmured Charlot, thinking it over. ‘A trigger which responds to aggression. Specific physiological changes associated. with anger, with killing, with destructive impulses. Why the biologists?’
‘They killed specimens,’ I said. ‘For dissection, for analysis. Everyone else was specifically forbidden to kill. This life-system is so perfectly ordered. It cancelled death. We brought death back. It’s cancelling us. Every act of aggression, of violence, of anger...
‘Jesus,’ I finished. ‘Just think what would happen if we took these viruses back to the stars!’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Johnny didn’t look too bad. It was, after all, no worse than a case of seasickness. So far.
I told him what we thought. It took some time, because he didn’t really understand about the viruses and the bacteria. But I did manage to get across to him that he had better keep his temper in check and think only pure thoughts from here until further notice—perhaps forever.
‘Will we ever be able to leave?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said ‘The battleship’s sent for help from New Alexandria, but it’ll be a week or more before anyone gets here. And then it’ll be a matter for someone else to decide whether anyone is allowed to land or not. In the meantime, all the Caradoc people are doing everything they can.’
‘How many dead so far?’
‘Only four. Varly, Ullman, two biologists. Some others have had a worsening of your sort of symptoms, but either the bugs were just flexing their muscles or it was a friendly warning to those concerned to repent of their sins or else.’
‘I guess everybody is pretty scared of their own feelings,’ said Johnny.
‘You said it, boy. Hell, when I think back to picking those flowers without a qualm and casually dropping them on the ground as if it didn’t matter a damn. And that shouting match I had with Holcomb...
‘I guess I must be a nice guy deep down after all. Maybe Pharos approved of my motives. After all, though this isn’t quite the time for even my sense of humour, it’s the thought that counts, you know.’
He didn’t laugh. It had come to that. Nobody dared laugh. Nobody who believed us, that is. We’d tried to distribute the good news, or the terrible news, depending on what sort of temperament you might have, to the best of our ability, but we hadn’t met with a very good reception. The army just wouldn’t credit it, despite the evidence of Ullman’s corpse and the testimony of their own medical officer.
There was no doubt, however, that I was right. If I’d needed any further evidence to support me it was right under my nose. I’d watched Charlot seethe with fury because he couldn’t supply the answer that was within his reach all the time. Now he was down with stage one gut ache and the runs, and he was pulling out every last inch of his masterful self-control. In him, though, it was a fraction more serious. He had been one degree under to start with, and he could well have done without this extra burden.
We had extended the sterile section on the bottom deck of the Swan quite considerably, so that the sufferers could each have privacy if they needed it. The last thing we wanted was for them to get on each other’s nerves. On the other hand, we also didn’t want them getting neurotic in isolation. It was a tough problem, but all we could do was make the information and the assistance available, and let people use it as they would.
Never in my life before had I spent such a considerable length of time making such a considerable effort to be nice to everybody, and never in my life before could I have succeeded so well.
Johnny, especially, seemed to welcome my company once now and again. I’d always been aware of the fact that he thought somewhat more highly of me than logic would have led him to, but the incidence of the Pharos plague completely changed my attitude to that tinge of hero-worship.
I had never actually liked Johnny previously. All of a sudden, I did. It was not simply a matter of pretence for the benefit of his health. I actually did like him. It is remarkable how changeable one’s character actually is, when circumstances encourage change.
&nbs
p; ‘How are the anti-sera coming along?’ he asked. Two days had passed since that long, sleepless night when the plague first struck. A sort of deathly hush had lain over all human activity in the meantime. I’d heard of people scared of their own shadows, but this situation was something far more deep-seated than that.
‘Slowly,’ I told him.
‘How many do we need now?’
‘Five. Markoff is pretty sure that we’ve tagged them all now. It’s probable that there would have been a great deal more if the plague warning hadn’t gone out so early.’
‘How very modest of you to say so,’ said Johnny.
‘No credit due to me,’ I said. ‘If it’s due to anyone, it’s due to Varly. He was the one obliging enough to commit murder and thus alert us to the seriousness of the situation within a matter of hours.’
‘How did the thing spread so fast in one day?’ he asked. ‘I can’t see any infection pattern. Who spread it?’
‘Nobody spread it,’ I said. ‘‘The Pharos life-system worked like one great big unit—which, of course, it is—and gave us all one great big infectious blast. There was no infection pattern, except possibly here on the field, where the nearest Pharos organism was some distance away. But there were the aliens, remember—the innocent, harmless, lovely aliens that you talked to that day. And many others, I don’t doubt.’
He nodded. ‘I see,’ he said, and then, after a brief pause, ‘I swear I’ll never start another fight, no matter what anyone says to me.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, not allowing the least trace of sarcasm or cynicism into the intonation. ‘When this is all over, if it ever is, remind me to tell you I told you so. It could have been worse, you know. If you’d had that fight two days ago instead of four, you could be dead.’
‘I don’t see how it picked me up after the event anyway,’ he said. ‘Or was it just taking exception to my general character?’
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ I said. ‘I don’t really feel that this thing is a great judge of morality, though. The trigger is definitely chemical—I think you were still harbouring resentment over the fight—mulling it over in your mind—reliving it partially in your memory. That’s what caused the physiological reaction which started phase one. Just think about pleasant things from now on, hey?’
‘I’ll bet you, you can’t not think of a white horse for five minutes,’ he said.
He was, of course, in a hell of a situation. When you know what not to think about, how can you avoid having it perennially on your mind? But attitudes are all important. When Johnny thought about that fight now, he wasn’t thinking ‘I should have done this to the bastard, and this, and if he ever....’ Not at all. He was now thinking along the lines of ‘Why ever did I let the guy get me all steamed up?’
Personally, I thought we should have filled every man who was sick up to the brim with happy juice and kept them under heavy sedation while the rest of us fought the problem. I reckoned there were enough spare men who were useless so far as the medical efforts went—me included—to look after a few hundred sleepers. But Charlot and Markoff between them had decided not to release their stocks of the sedative drugs, except in cases where a real need could be seen. I could see the reasoning behind it—supplies were finite, if apparently abundant, and we might be here forever—in which case our rations of those drugs might take on an entirely new significance. They were thinking in the long term, despite their air of guarded optimism any time anyone approached them and asked for a progress report. I thought that was significant.
‘You know,’ said Johnny, ‘I think we all must be a little bit crazy. The worse that can happen to us—the absolute worse—is that we’re condemned to life in Paradise, and guaranteed a peaceful time and a life of pleasant harmony. That’s it. Sometimes I wonder why we’re fighting quite so hard and with such determination.’
And of course, he was right. This was the dream, wasn’t it? This was the dream that was behind the Paradise syndrome, which motivated the Paradise Game, which was the whole thing behind the initial trouble on this world. So what was so hateful about it?
But like I’ve said before, I don’t believe in Paradise. I don’t like the Paradise Game. I think the whole thing is a farce and an illusion.
If I’d wanted to exult about being proven right, Pharos was offering me every excuse. But in situations like ours, you get to be just a little bit afraid of exultancy. You get to be just a little bit afraid of everything you are. The fact that the virus hadn’t even begun counting strikes against me on the road to hell didn’t mean that I was a prime candidate for Heaven. The guy who got his lilywhite mitts on the Holy Grail in the old legends might have loved it here. But for us poor humans...
No chance.
‘That’s right,’ I said to Johnny, in a voice that was only slightly sad, and a little bitter in spite of myself. ‘It’s the nicest place in the galaxy to be condemned to. One hell of a lot better than the last place I thought I was going to spend my whole life.’
That last place, of course, was Lapthorn’s Grave, the hunk of bleak rock on the edge of the Halcyon Drift. That place had done bad things to me, but I wasn’t altogether convinced that Pharos wasn’t doing worse.
As I left Johnny, ready to go back to my assigned work in plague-fighting, I met Trisha Melly. She still didn’t want to seduce me, but at least she didn’t mind talking to me, which was more than I could say for Holcomb.
We exchanged a few words. She was a real little ray of sunshine. A dyed-in-the-wool idealist. She had found a real bright side to look at. She thought that as a matter of duty we ought to lift our ships and take our glorious gift back to the whole of galactic civilisation. Live in peace, or not at all. She thought it was our destiny.
She might have been right.
In my most amusing moments, I thought it might be our just deserts. But I knew the human race would never stand for it. It would fight the plague with everything it possessed, and it would win in the end. I was dead certain that we weren’t booked for a universal Heaven just yet.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In the two days that followed there were no more deaths, but the steady trickle of men reporting the initial symptoms continued. By dawn on the fifth day after the plague warning there were less than a hundred men and women remaining apparently healthy. No one had recovered, or made the slightest step toward recovery. A good many cases seemed to get worse, but it proved to be a simple worsening of the symptoms already extant, and no one could say that it was the bugs rather than the worry. I half expected that sooner or later some fool would precipitate himself into the final phase of the disease simply by virtue of fear that he might, and start a panic which in turn killed more people. But that didn’t happen. The Pharos viruses were inordinately sensitive—they were not activated by fear, or any other strong emotion except anger and the urge to destroy. Those of us who were able to work—including a good number of those who were supposedly ill—did so, in search of some miracle agent that would clear all our systems of all the killer bugs. It was like searching for the panacea, or the philosopher’s stone.
But we had extra help.
It was help that no one knew about except me, and I had no intention of telling anyone else. If the wind managed to turn the trick, I intended to take all the credit for myself.
I had, in the past, been inclined to neglect the wind. In the beginning, I had ignored him as much as was possible, in the fond but forlorn hope that he might go away. As I had become reconciled to his existence and his persistence, I had moved from rejecting him to taking him for granted. So far as I was concerned, he was just an inner voice—an invisible companion. I tended to treat him, and think of him, as if he were human—which was true, in a way. Humanity had been thrust upon him. He was manifest as a humanly-organised mind. I had always been aware that he had talents above and beyond my own, but I had always felt uncomfortable in their presence and I had not inquired deeply into their precise nature. Nor had I concerned myself w
ith determining his exact existential status, the secrets of his life-cycle and personal organisation. I did not even know what he was made of.
Perhaps it is odd that I had never evolved any curiosity as to these things, as I have a naturally curious outlook. But I have never had a personality that absorbed things into itself. Lapthorn used to be like that—everything he touched made an impression on his soul. He not only wanted to understand things, but also to feel them, to identify with them. My understanding was of a different kind—cold, aloof, mechanical. I am basically a pragmatic man—I am neither emotionally self-indulgent nor spiritually excitable. I orient my curiosity toward things external to me, and I use it, so far as is possible, in an objective manner. I never try to link my external experience with my internal, personal experience of myself, in the way that Lapthorn did. I perceived the wind as being within—I experienced the wind as though he were an independent part of my own self. Thus I acted toward the wind in a manner which was quite different from the normal spectrum of my reactions to things outside of me. I was not curious about the wind. I felt no compulsion upon me to even try to understand him.
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