He went faintly green, gagged, stubbed his cigar out in a hurry. 'God Jesus!'
'He's done, Mr Magnus. I don't know how he walked this far, but it's his swansong, believe me. And if you want the man healed instead of dead, you'd better help me prevent him walking to the Potomac tomorrow.'
'Why the hell did you keep this to yourself? Why wasn't I told?' He was bellowing so loudly he didn't notice his secretary open the door, then shut it again quickly without coming in.
'I had my reasons,' said Dr Carriol, unintimidated. 'He will live and he will be all right, provided he's taken somewhere very quiet and very isolated, given the best medical attention we can command, and we don't waste any time organizing it.' She was feeling better by the second. How nice it felt to dominate Harold Magnus.
He made up his mind. 'Tonight?'
'Tonight.'
'All right, the sooner the better. Shit! What am I going to tell the President? What's the King of England going to think? Come all that way at great expense and no one to say hi to! Shit! What a shlemozzle!' He peered at her suspiciously. 'You're sure the man's done?'
'I am sure. Look at it this way, sir,' she went on, too tired and too — heartsick? — to care whether she successfully kept the ironic contempt out of her voice. 'The rest of the bunch are in great shape. So they should be! They haven't walked all winter, they've trained all winter, and they haven't walked the whole way to Washington, like him. Senator Hillier, Mayor O'Connor, Governors Canfield, Griswold, Kelly, Stanhope and de Matteo, General Pickering, et cetera, et cetera, are all in fantastic form, lapping up the attention. So why not let tomorrow be their day? Dr Joshua Christian was the driving force behind the March of the Millennium, yes, but the cameras and the eyes of the world have been fastened on him for eight days now, with everyone else — no matter how important — aware he's taking a back seat to the Man of the Millennium. And let's face it, Dr Christian doesn't give a shit about the King of England or the Emperor of Siam or the Queen of Hearts, any more than the King of England really gives a shit about Dr Joshua Christian. So let Mr Reece and the senators and the governors and all the rest have tomorrow for themselves. Let Tibor Reece be the one to climb that platform and address the crowd! He adores Dr Christian; he won't deliver a speech that will fail to do justice to the occasion. And the crowd won't care at this stage who addresses them. They've been a part of the March of the Millennium; that's all they'll want to remember.'
His brain had followed this line of thought with somewhat less than its customary precision and flawless self-interest; he hadn't slept properly for eight days, he hadn't eaten in many hours, except candy, candy, candy, and he was feeling just a little queasy.
'I suppose you're right,' he said, blinking. He yawned. 'Yes, it should work. I'd better see the President right away.'
'Whoa, there! Before you go off half-cocked, I want some decisions from you as to where and how we take Dr Christian. Palm Springs is out, I arranged that before I knew how sick he was. It's also too far. What worries me most is secrecy. Wherever we take him can't be vulnerable to local speculation or gossip. We don't want any rumours leaking out about the shocking state he's got himself into walking among the people; it would make a martyr of him. He must be treated by a small, hand-picked group of doctors and nurses in a place fairly close to Washington, but where no one will find him. Of course the doctors and the nurses will have to be service personnel with top security clearances.'
'Yes. Yes. We certainly can't afford to make a martyr out of him, living or dead. We have to show him to the people in a year's time or whenever, fit and well and ready to go.'
Dr Carriol raised her brows. 'So?'
'So — where? Any suggestions?'
'No, Mr Secretary, not a one. I thought you might know of somewhere, as you're from Virginia. It can't be too far away because we don't know what the medical team will really have to contend with, so they'll have to be able to get extra staff or equipment from their usual base of operations — I guess they'll be from Walter Reed?'
He nodded.
'Yet it must be an isolated place,' she insisted.
He plucked the dead cigar out of the ashtray, looked at it, then reached for a fresh one out of the humidor placed shamelessly on his desk. 'The best cigars,' he said, getting himself puffing, 'have to be rolled on the inside of a woman's thigh. These' — puff — 'are' — puff puff — 'the best.'
Dr Carriol looked at him more alertly. 'Mr Magnus, are you all right?'
'Of course I'm all right! I can't think without a cigar is all.' He sat and puffed some more, then he said, 'Well, there is one possible place. An island in Pamlico Sound, North Carolina. Deserted these days. It belongs to the Binkman tobacco family. Fallen on hard times, of course. Didn't think to diversify. Must have been the only tobacco family that didn't diversify.' He puffed on.
Get on with it, man! Dr Carriol wanted to scream, but didn't. She sat as patiently as she could.
'One of the Parks and Wildlife people brought it up with me just before the March. Seems the Binkmans want to donate it to the nation as a designated park, if they can't sell it. It's already a bird and wildlife sanctuary, has been for years, but the Binkmans just don't have the money to use the place any more, and they're desperate to unload it while it's still in good condition. There's an interesting old house on the island that they used as a summer home for — hell, centuries, nearly! They've just fixed the house up because they thought they had a firm offer for house and island, but the sale fell through a couple of weeks ago. And unless they get rid of it, they're facing a massive tax bill. Hence the offer to Parks. I think what they're really hoping for is that the nation will buy it for a Presidential retreat; it's ideal. But with the March taking up all the President's attention, I haven't brought the matter up with him yet. There's no one in the house or on the island, but Parks assured me it all works. There's water and proper plumbing and a 50 kVa diesel generator to provide power. Would it suit your purposes?'
She stretched, shuddered. 'It sounds ideal. Does the place have a name?'
'Pocahontas Island. It's a bit the Cape Hatteras side of Kitty Hawk and about in the middle of that end of the sound. Only about a mile long and half a mile wide. I guess it's really a sand spit that's stayed above sea level long enough to green up. It's on the charts, Parks says.' He buzzed Mrs Taverner. 'Damn the woman! Where's my coffee and cognac?'
They appeared very quickly, but when Mrs Taverner went to leave just as quickly, he detained her. Hold it, hold it! Dr Carriol, do you have sufficient medical knowledge to give Helena some idea of what doctors we need and what equipment they'll need?'
'Yes. Mrs Taverner, we need a vascular surgeon, a plastic surgeon, a good general physician, a shock and exposure specialist, an anaesthetist, and two class A nurses. All with top security clearances. They will need everything necessary to treat shock, exhaustion, exposure, severe frostbite with what I suppose is gangrene or some other form of necrosis, chronic malnutrition maybe, some degree of kidney failure, a full gamut of drugs, plenty of wound dressings, the appropriate surgical instruments to deal with abscesses and debridement of tissue — oh, and we'd better throw in a psychiatrist too.'
This last requisition made him squint narrowly at Dr Carriol, but he made no comment beyond a grunt.
'Got all that?' he asked Mrs Taverner. 'Good. I'll tell you what to do with it after Dr Carriol has gone. And get me the President on the phone now.'
Mrs Taverner paled. 'Sir, do you think you ought? It's nearly four in the morning!'
'Is it? Well, too bad. Wake him.'
'What shall I tell the aide on duty?'
'Something, anything, I don't care! Just do it!'
Mrs Taverner fled. Dr Carriol rose, poured the coffee and the cognac and put the Secretary's in front of him before returning to her chair.
'I didn't realize it was so late. I must get back to him. Damn the crowds! If you don't mind, I'll arrange to go back by helicopter. And I think it would be best
to get Dr Christian straight into the helicopter — before dawn, if possible — and down to Pocahontas Island. He's used to travelling with Billy, our pilot, so it won't alarm him. I'll go with him, of course. The medical team can meet us at Pocahontas. At the rate I'm going they'll make it there before us anyway. At least they will if you get moving.' This last was minatory.
'I can assure you, Dr Carriol, that I intend to get moving! It is no part of my plan to endanger Dr Christian's life,' he said with great dignity. He picked up his brandy balloon, grimacing at the small amount of liquid Dr Carriol had poured into its bottom. 'I like my drinks Texas style,' he said, drained the glass in a gulp and held it out. 'A decent one, if you please.'
His secretary buzzed while Dr Carriol was busy with the decanter.
'Sir, they're wakening Mr Reece. He'll call back.'
'All right. Thanks.' He took several rapid gulps of his replenished cognac. 'You'd better get going, Judith.'
She looked at the clock behind him and pulled a face. 'Hell! It will be five before I get back, even by helicopter. Just as well double daylight savings has put the dawn back quite a bit. Now don't forget to instruct the medical team properly, and tell them they will be met at Pocahontas Island by their patient. Oh, we had better have someone along who can deal with a diesel generator.'
'Dammit, you're worse than my wife! Stop fussing! The place will be in perfect working order — hell, they're expecting the President to look it over! God Jesus, will I be glad when this zoo is a thing of the past!'
'Me too, Mr Magnus. Thank you. I'll keep you informed.'
As she left him, Harold Magnus was on his feet pouring a third cognac, and preparing to light up another thigh-rolled cigar.
In the outer office she paused by Mrs Taverner's desk to call Billy and arrange that he meet her at the Capitol helipad. 'How I wish Environment had a pad!' she said as she hung up. Then she looked at Mrs Taverner closely. 'You are absolutely beat!'
'I am indeed. I haven't been home since Dr Christian left New York City.'
'Literally?'
'Yes. Well, Mr Magnus has been at the White House, so someone's had to keep things going, and you know him. He's never been one to trust deputies or delegate authority.'
'He's a bastard. Why do you put up with him?'
'Oh, he's not so bad when things are nice and calm. And this is one of the few top-graded secretarial positions in the federal service.'
'You'd better go in to him — but not until after he gets his call from the President, okay?'
'Okay. Good night, Dr Carriol.'
Four in the morning, thought Harold Magnus, drinking his third cognac at a gulp. He blinked, yawned, his head swimming. Shit. Brandy never went to his head! Oh, God help him if things continued to go wrong! He didn't feel his best, he really didn't. Too much candy, not enough proper food. But fuck the doctors, he did not have diabetes! Four in the morning. No wonder he wasn't feeling his best. No dinner. Fuck Dr Judith Carriol. Fuck Dr Joshua Christian. Fuck the doctors. Fuck everything. Thinking about doctors and his own state of health made him remember Dr Christian's plight. He reached to buzz Mrs Taverner to come in and take her instructions. But she beat him to it; she buzzed first.
'Mr Reece is on the line, sir. He doesn't sound happy.'
The President wasn't happy. 'What the hell are you waking me up for?' came his voice, sleepy and crotchety.
'Well, Mr President, if I am kept awake and from my dinner by the state of the nation, why the hell should you sleep? It's your nation, not mine!' he said, and giggled.
'Harold? That is you?'
'Mi mi mi mi mi mi! Of course it's me!' sang Mr Magnus. 'It's four a.m. and I'm a gem!'
'You are drunk'
'God Jesus, I must be!' The Secretary fought hard to regain some control. 'I apologize, Mr President. It's been too long between food and this brandy is all. I'm sorry, sir, I am truly sorry.'
'You had me wakened to tell me you're drunk and hungry?'
'Of course I didn't. We have a problem.'
'Oh?'
'Dr Christian isn't walking. I've had Dr Carriol here this morning, and she tells me he's mortally ill. So it looks like the March of the Millennium is going to have to end without its leader.'
'I see.'
'However, the rest of the important marchers are in good shape, so with your permission I intend to let them lead the March in. Oh, with his family right in front, naturally! But we need someone to give Dr Christian's oration, and I think it can be none other than you.'
'Yes, I agree. You had better come to the White House later this morning, say at eight. I'll arrange to get Dr Carriol here too. I want to find out what's the matter with poor Dr Christian for myself. And, Harold, lay off the sauce, will you? It's a big day today.'
'Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.'
Gratefully the Secretary for the Environment cradled his receiver. His head wouldn't stop going round, he felt really dreadfully ill, he was so druggily tired he fancied he might never be able to get up from his desk. And without knowing he actually did so, he laid his head, so heavy, so dizzy, so glutted with sugary blood, so exhausted, he laid his head down on his desk, and he slept immediately. Or rather he passed into the altered state of consciousness indicative of a very severe hyperglycaemia.
In the outer office Mrs Taverner's desk was empty. She had taken advantage of the President's phone call and visited her private rest room. On the way out again she thought she might just sit down on the edge of her couch for a moment, because her legs were shaking with a mixture of exhaustion and frayed nerves. But the sitting became lying. She fell at once into a dreamless sleep.
Somehow on the previous night Dr Christian had felt he must make an effort, must spend a little time with his dearly beloved family. He knew he had neglected them badly ever since God in Cursing was published, he knew he had been grossly unfair in his treatment of them; it was not their fault that the practice and the clinic in Holloman had disintegrated, it was his fault. Yet he had blamed them. And he had grown out — not of loving them, maybe, but certainly of liking them. Poor things, so desperately dependent upon him, so eager to please him, so pathetically cast adrift by his conduct since they had all gathered in New York City to support him.
So he had made the effort, sat and talked to them, even laughed and joked a little. He ate the food Mama plied him with, he gave words of advice to James and Andrew and Miriam, he smiled with special sweetness on the little Mouse, and he even tried to conciliate Mary. Alone among them she did not like him, he was really not sure why; but he admitted there were many possible reasons.
Oh, he had paid for giving them those hours! Was it just the food that sat undigested and lumpish in his belly, was it just the food he had to vomit up? Or was it them as well? The pain of bringing it up was excruciating, the act unendurably long. How could one love one's executioners? How could one love one's betrayer? Between lying down and sleeping he asked himself those and other questions over and over again, but thought was ever-increasingly difficult and he knew himself to be wandering in strange mental lands.
Sleep had not come until after Dr Carriol got up and left him. He couldn't sleep with her watching, so he feigned it. Only after she was gone did he work his little personal miracle, will sleep to come. And admit that ever since she had begun to minister to him he had been more comfortable, better equipped to deal with the nightly upsurge of pain.
He slept very freely and deeply and contentedly until four in the morning, like a last sleep; no dreams came to plague him, no sounds penetrated.
But not very many minutes after four o'clock he rolled over and squashed his right arm up against his side, compressing the tennis-ball-sized mass of unrelieved necrosis in that axilla; it tried to condense itself out of the way without success, swilled around the great nerve-laden arterial trunk that supplied his right arm and hand with blood, swilled around the great bundle of fibres that supplied his right arm and hand with feeling and movement, and bo
th these swollen infected ropes of tissue screamed in agony.
He leaped to sit bolt upright in his bed, the huge cry swallowed in his throat before it could howl out of his gaping mouth, and he rocked himself back and forth and back and forth in sweating horror, so transfixed with agony that for perhaps ten minutes he wondered if it was possible for a human life to snuff itself out from pure pain.
'My God, my God, take this away from me!' he whimpered then, rocking back and forth, back and forth. Haven't I already suffered enough? Don't I know I am only a mortal man?'
But the pain rolled on and on. He catapulted from the bed to walk the floor in a frenzy, his bare black festering toes unable to guide his feet along a steady path. And so afraid was he of screaming aloud that in the end he knew he must find a place to go where a scream would not matter.
Like a shadow he passed through the darkness of the outer canvas room, into the night. Limping and staggering, stopping each few agonized paces to rock his pain like a baby.
A tree reared up in his path; he reached out to grab it, held on to it, slid slowly down it until he crouched on the grass at its spreading base, and there he held his arms around his head, rocking back and forth.
'My God, grant me tomorrow!' he gasped, fighting, fighting. 'Not over yet! Only tomorrow! My God, my God, do not leave me, do not forsake me!'
Though it may not be possible to die from pure pain, it is certainly possible to become demented from pure pain. Crouching there at the base of the tree, Dr Joshua Christian yielded up his reason. So gladly! So gratefully! So very easily, now he no longer had the strength to struggle. He went quite mad. Mad in the fullest sense of the word. Free at last of the chains of logical thought, emancipated at last from the fetters of conscious will, he floated into a perfect and blissful limbo of unreason, of madness, racked at last beyond endurance, an animal creature huddled there in touch with the earth that was formed and firm, warm and welcoming as his mother.
A Creed for the Third Millennium Page 35
