The Haploids

by Jerry Sohl

  THE HAPLOIDS (1952)

  by Jerry Sohl

  ONE

  He was there when they brought the screaming man in.

  At first he could barely hear the man and wondered idly from what part of the hospital the yells were coming. But when the elevator doors opened on his floor, the man's wild cries burst full force into the corridor.

  "Don't let them take me back! Don't let them! Please! Please!" It was a voice edged in full-blown terror and Gibson Travis was shocked by its import and by its volume. What possible experience could engender that much fear?

  It could be a post-operative, he thought. But doctors certainly wouldn't let him go screaming through the halls to his room; it would be a poor advertisement for surgery and it would lower morale. But if it were an accident case surely a shot of morphine or some other sedative could have calmed him down. If the man were simply off his rocker he shouldn't be here at all. There were other places for people like that.

  Travis snubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray next to his bed and walked to the open door of his room and leaned against the jamb.

  Half a dozen orderlies had hold of an old man's arms and legs and, the screaming man tossing and heaving on the hospital cart, were moving him now down the hallway. Gibson Travis was so unnerved by the loud shrieks that he did not at first notice the man's skin. But he could not help seeing it when the group went by the door.

  The man's flesh was a mottled gray.

  Travis went back to his bed and sat down on the edge of it. His hand shook as he lighted another cigarette. In a few minutes the old man's cries stopped and Travis was able to relax again. He wondered how the other patients on the medical floor had taken it. What kind of medicine could they give an old codger like that to clear up that splotchy gray skin? Flesh with irregular areas of reddish-brown color and some blotches of bluish cast. It made his own flesh creep to think of it. Cancer? Psoriasis? Impetigo? If it was cancer the old guy had it all over. Travis had never seen anyone with a cancer and now that he thought of it he marveled at how isolated from public view the cancerous are. As for psoriasis and impetigo, he crossed them off because he had known cases of both.

  He was still reviewing his contacts with the diseased during his thirty years of life when Hal Cable came in.

  "I suppose I'm risking my life coming here," Hal said as he drew up a chair, puffing from walking up three flights of stairs. "You said you didn't want to see anybody."

  "It was the doctor's suggestion," Travis said, smiling. "But after nine days I'm glad somebody was brave enough to come."

  "Good," Hal grunted, sinking his 225 pounds in the chair. "How many days do you have left?"

  "The doctor says I can leave tomorrow morning." Travis eyed him speculatively. "Did you come up out of friendship alone or do I detect some other reason?"

  Instead of answering, Hal brought out a cigar. "O.K. to smoke?" When Travis nodded, he bit the end off the cigar. How's it been?"

  "Nothing to it. You know that. Who's taking over for me?"

  "Cline chose Gilberts. Good on features and he's got that research angle Cline likes."

  "How's the rest of the gang?"

  "Fine." Hal looked away, glanced around the room. "Pretty nice layout even for a hospital room. Drapes, shades, bookcases, radio, phone—"

  "It's not connected."

  "No wonder Cline couldn't get you, then."

  "I knew you had something else on your mind. Let's have it."

  Hal neatly knocked a small ash off his cigar into the tray, then studied the glowing end.

  "Cline wants you back. He didn't like the idea of your going over his head to get your year off."

  "So that's it." Travis sank back onto the pillows. "You go back and tell the city editor—"

  "I'm not telling him anything," Hal interrupted. "He wants you to come down and see him."

  "Look, Hal," Travis said, sitting up again, "there are sabbatical leaves in other professions, I don't see why there shouldn't be any in journalism. I've been on the Star for ten years with only the regular vacation each year. I'm thirty years old now—man! That's time to start trying to figure things out."

  "But you're a success, Trav. By-lines every other day, you get hired out as a speaker now and then. And what about that radio program y6u turned down?"

  Travis shook his head. "I suppose it sounds funny to you, Hal, but I'm different from you. Sure I love my work. I started as an office boy and I was happy until I started wanting something else. Then I worked hard and became a beat man. Police, then city hall, courthouse. Now I'm strictly features. Each job made me happy, but there was always something else, there was always something egging me on . . ."

  "What do you want now?"

  "I don't know, Hal. I just don't know. My sinuses have been giving me hell and for a while I thought it was that. But these ten days in the hospital and all that penicillin has knocked that out—maybe for good. No, Hal, there's something else I want and I'm taking a year off to find out' what it is."

  "Maybe you want to be city editor?"

  Travis laughed. "A quaint thought, Hal, really. Hell, old Cline will be city editor until he dries up and blows away."

  "Well, managing editor, then?"

  "No." Travis thoughtfully eyed a corner of the room. "I was surprised when I discovered I didn't want to be an editor. I don't know why. I've got to find out what I do want. Otherwise I'm just sort of floating around in space, no destination, no objective."

  "Yeah. Yeah. Well, why don't you go down and tell Cline that?"

  "Not a chance. Parsons let me go and I'm staying away for that year. You can tell Cline that."

  "He won't like it."

  "I don't give a damn."

  "O.K., O.K." Hal got up, dusted some ashes off his coat. "Got to get back to the darkroom. Some late stuff coming through. The boys dropped me off on a call. I'll catch a taxi back."

  Travis moved and put his legs over the bed. "I'll walk with you down the hall." He put on his robe and slippers.

  "Funny thing," Hal said as they moved down the corridor.

  "What?"

  "Oh, your thinking you have troubles. You ought to have worries like mine."

  "For example?"

  "Teaching kids photography. We got a new crop. I tell you they've been awful."

  "I always considered you a patient man, Hal. You getting nerves now?"

  "No, I don't think so. It's, just—well, a couple of them have been pulling the slide on an open shutter, for example. Blacken the whole film. Such a basic thing. Just can't pound it into their heads, somehow. They've got us all doing it."

  "That is discouraging."

  "Worse than that. Well, where are you going on your year? Are you going to keep in touch with the gang?"

  "Haven't decided yet. . . . But there is one thing, Hal."

  "Yeah?" They stopped near the stairs.

  "If I want to see you I'll call you. All right?"

  "If that's the way you want it, Trav."

  "That's the way I want it. I may want to see you; I may not.

  "You're not sore?"

  "Of course not, Hal. I'll probably be calling you soon and we'll hang one on."

  "It's a date." Hal Cable went down the steps.

  On the way back to his room the quiet of the hospital corridor soaked into him. The hallway itself was empty, but down at the end of it a light burned at the nurses' station. There were a few squares of light from some of the doorways on the linoleum block floor, for the lights in the hallway had been dimmed and the night lights in the baseboards had been turned on.

  From somewhere there came that smell, a mixture of ether, alcohol and formalin. He had heard people say they didn't like hospitals because of the smell and the fact that it reminded
them of days they had spent" there, some of them unpleasant days, probably. But for Gibson Travis the smell was not objectionable. It simply identified Union City Hospital for what it was. He had no recollections of the smell outside of his newspaper experience, for he had never really been ill a day in his life, except now and this wasn't really being ill. He had merely to take it easy while he was punctured with regularity as penicillin was injected. Even that hadn't been unpleasant. The army had rendered him immune to the fear of hypodermic needles.

  As he walked he wondered how he would spend his year. It had to be the year in which he was to find himself. The year when he put off procrastination and faced up to reality. The year in which he was to find a purpose and a pattern in his life. Was it a woman he needed? He smiled to himself tolerantly. Women had been no particular problem. Possibly he had loved some of them in a way, but not well enough to have any of them around twenty-four hours a day. On the night side, yes, on the day side, no. Most of them had seemed pretty self-sufficient and he doubted there was a single case where either could have added much to the other. No, it wasn't a woman. A life work? A dedication? That came nearer, somehow.

  He had been s6 deep in thought he did not realize he had gone past his doorway until he looked for it. Then, instead of turning back, he continued on down the hall to the nurses' station. Neither Mrs. Nelson, the supervisor, nor Miss Pease, the nurse, was there, so he continued, rounding the corner, looking into rooms as he did so, catching glimpses of people—a man reading, an old woman combing her hair, a young woman asleep.

  He stopped when he saw the old man in room 326, the one who had been doing the screaming a half hour before. The old man was breathing hard now, but his eyes were open. There was someone else in the room with him, for he heard the clink of glasses or instruments, but the person was out of Travis's vision.

  The old flesh seemed darker than it had been. This made the red splotches appear even brighter. There were now some ugly purple patches, too, most of them on his neck. The old man was about through, Travis thought. He hoped he wasn't in any pain.

  Travis continued his walk down the hallway, but had little heart or curiosity for others, for the image of the old man's face kept flashing in his mind. It was a kindly face, a face with a courageous jaw and white hair. As he examined it in retrospect he decided the" man must have been unconscious, for his glassy eyes were just staring at the ceiling and the upper lip had retreated somewhat from over the teeth. Travis now recognized the sound that filtered down the hallway as the rasp of the man's breathing. He turned around and walked a little faster toward his room.

  He had come up to the doorway to the old man's room when a redheaded intern he knew as Dr. Collins hurried out and nearly bumped into him.

  "Sorry," the intern said. "I didn't see you."

  "Quite all right, Doctor," Travis said. They both headed down the hall. "How's the old duck?"

  The intern looked at him speculatively.

  "Not too good," he said.

  "What's his trouble?"

  "I don't know."

  "Look," Travis said, "I'm just a patient. I go home tomorrow. I probably wouldn't understand if you told me. I just wondered if it's cancer."

  "I don't think it is," the intern said. "In fact, nobody seems to know what it is, in case that answers your question."

  "Where did you pick him up?"

  "I didn't have anything to do with it. They tell me police found him naked on the street." They stopped at the nurses' station and the intern hung up the chart.

  "Sounds like a case of insanity to me."

  The intern pursed his lips. "He wasn't insane a few minutes ago."

  "No?"

  "You'll have to excuse me," the intern said. "I have other patients to tend to." He went down the hall.

  Travis wandered back to his room, lit a cigarette and walked to the windows. Out in the courtyard below him the last of the visitors were getting into their cars and leaving. For some of them, he thought, it might be the last time, if some friend or relative did not last out the night. Perhaps soon there would be a car out there containing a brother or wife or someone related to the old man who now lay dying in room 326. To them he would be an awful sight to behold. It would be so much more terrible to have known the old man and then to suddenly see him now like this.

  While he watched the courtyard he saw a large black car swing into it faster than a car should have. It came to an abrupt stop inches from an iron fence and its lights went off. A moment later a girl got out, opened her handbag under the lone courtyard light, seemed satisfied with what she saw in it, then walked toward the ambulance entrance.

  She had gone out of sight beneath him and Travis was still wondering where she was going when he heard a sound that made him turn toward the door. It was someone on the stairs coming up fast. He went to the door, reflecting that he was getting like an old woman lately, always interested in seeing what the neighbors are doing.

  He looked out as the last of the stair footsteps sounded and found it was the girl who had just gotten out of the car. She stood at the top of the stairwell looking the other way. He ducked back into his room. Then he heard the hurried click-click of her high-heeled shoes as she went down the hallway away from him and the stairway. He risked another look.

  The girl had on a dark blue hat, dark coat—he couldn't tell whether or not it was black. From under her hat and over her collar hung bright blonde hair. He noticed with pleasure the trim waist, the fine legs and the just-right ankles. Now, if she looked as nice the other way . . .

  The girl, was reaching the end of the corridor, looking into the rooms as she went. Then she turned and came toward Travis. He whistled inwardly. The front view was as nice as the rear. Her pert hat set off an oval face, a nice chin, white throat, and two of the nicest lips he had ever seen.

  He had intended retreating into his room, but his fascination for something not dressed in white stayed with him and she was upon him before he could withdraw gracefully.

  She did not see him until the last possible instant, so intent was she on looking into the rooms. When she did look at him he saw her eyes were all business. They were a pretty blue, but not curious or friendly. There was a purpose about them that killed the greeting half-formed in his throat.

  "Can I help you?" he found himself saying instead.

  Her eyes did not dwell on his more than an instant before they swept by him into his room. Evidently satisfied there was no one else in his room she walked by him without a word, her heels clicking determinedly as she headed down the hall.

  He watched her. She did not stop at the nurses' station, though he could see that Mrs. Nelson and Miss Pease stood looking after her. They whispered something to each other. The girl rounded the corner.

  His interest piqued, he made his way down the hall, nodded to the nurses as he went around their station.

  The girl was not in sight.

  Travis hurried down the hall. Although he glanced in each room as he walked, something told him he would find the girl in 326.

  He was right.

  He walked right in, but the girl did not see him, so intent was she on what she was doing. She had opened her purse and was fumbling around inside it. Then, to his surprise, he saw her draw out a hypodermic syringe and approach the bed.

  He was amazed to see the old man turn and look at the girl. Instantly the old man's eyes opened wide and his mouth worked noiselessly. He tried to talk but his only sound was a hoarse, meaningless whisper.

  The girl hesitated for a moment. Then her hand went under the old man's arm and she pulled it up for the needle. In that instant Travis was upon her. He hit the hand that held the syringe, but though she was caught off guard she did not let it go. She whirled on him and he saw the utmost loathing for him in her glittering blue eyes. She whipped away from him, then was back at him, using the syringe like a dagger.

  He stopped the blow with his forearm, caught her flailing arm with his other hand and let go a m
oment later when she sank her teeth into his wrist. He got rougher and slapped hard at the arm holding the syringe. The hypodermic sailed through the air in a neat arc and crashed to the floor.

  The girl rushed him and the pain where her teeth had entered his arm angered him so that he caught her arm roughly and held her kicking and clawing form, hoping to hold her till she quieted. She was breathing hard now. Suddenly a sharp heel-spiked kick caught his shin and he grunted in pain. The momentary relaxation of his muscles was all she needed. She pushed away and nearly fell to the floor in her rush to leave him and the room.

  His shin ached so he could hardly stand on that foot, but he limped fast to the door just as the two nurses ran to the doorway.

  "That girl—" he started to say and tried to get past the nurses.

  "Mr. Travis!" Miss Pease had her hand on his arm and blocked his way with her body. "You ought to be in your room. Whatever in the world was going on down here?"

  "For heaven's sake, let me get that girl!" he cried, tearing away and pushing past her. He went down the hall to the corner, but the girl was out of sight in the other hallway. He quickly limped to the stairwell, but he could hear no one going down. He then hobbled back to his room and saw her through his window as she ran out to her car. He could not hope to catch her now.

  TWO

  A curious sense of elation started in the pit of his stomach, worked out to his toes, his fingers and his head. It was nothing new to Travis; he had had it off and on ever since he got into the newspaper business. It meant he was on to something he wanted to do, that he wouldn't be satisfied until he had an answer.

  He had been very scientific about it before; he had examined this feeling very critically several times. He had traced it as it spread from his stomach, like the warm and relaxing glow whiskey brings. But what organic changes caused it, what glands were pouring juice into the blood stream, what chemical changes were responsible, he never knew. Once he had asked a psychiatrist about it. The psychiatrist had given him a fishy stare. Travis never asked anybody about it again. It remained his own private occupational disease.