Venture science fiction.., p.201
Venture Science Fiction: The Complete Fiction, page 201
“Thanks, but I doubt if I could eat. I saw some of those reconstituted dehydrated meals, and I’m sure that they are nutritious. But they looked too much like damp sawdust. Not right now—”
He broke off as Rama put the tray down on the desk before him and uncovered it. A steaming steak lay on the plate, the succulent odor causing him automatically to lick at his lips. He started to reach for the silverware—then looked up in sudden anger.
“I ordered that all foodstuffs except the dehydrated meals be disposed of. I will not have favoritism or special privileges for anyone, myself included.”
“Never, sir!” Rama backed away, hands raised against Don’s anger. “It is a very simple story. Chief Kurikka discovered one of the cooks preparing this for himself. He had apparently hidden it for his own swinish use. The chief is a just man, but an angry one, and I tremble to tell you of the greedy cook’s punishment. The least part of which was the careful preparation of this steak, but not the eating of same. It was the concerted agreement of all present that discarding it would be a waste. And that if anyone on the Big Joe were to have it, it would have to be you. There were no dissenting votes on that, sir. Please eat it before it gets cold.”
Don was silent a moment, then he took up the silverware. His voice was halting when he spoke.
“That is the least I can do. Please . . . thank them for me. It’s a wonderful steak.”
He finished it all and was just washing it down with the last of the coffee when the phone rang. It was the purser calling back.
“The information you requested, Captain. Very simple. The man in question left Earth from the Chicago Lake Rocket Station, and he is also a resident of Greater Chicago. He had not been out of the city for at least a year before this flight. Is that the information you want, sir?”
“Yes, thank you, that’s what I want.” Don slowly dropped the receiver back into place.
Dead end. There were no exotic diseases in Greater Chicago.
“Is anything wrong?” Rama asked. Don straightened up, aware that his worries showed on his face.
“Just a false lead. I am trying to determine the nature of the disease that these people have. It’s difficult. To be perfectly frank with you—I haven’t the vaguest idea of what is wrong. Since you plan to be a doctor some day, Rama, you might as well find out now that doctors are human. Cut us and we bleed. We do not know everything. That is, any one of us does not know everything. That’s why we have specialists. And I am now going to call on a specialist. You had better stay on duty here. I’ll be in the control room if you need me.”
Either the corridors were getting longer or he was getting tireder. He passed one of the passengers on the way, Mrs. something-or-other, he should remember her name. He nodded in greeting as they passed, but she just turned away and sniffed audibly. He had to smile. He could almost read her thoughts: baggage-stealing, food-stealing, water-stealing, phoney captain!
Kurikka was alone in the control room, arms folded over his chest, as he slumped in the astrogator’s chair and looked at the dials and readouts before him. He might have been asleep, except Kurikka was not the kind of man who slept on duty. He unfolded his six-foot form and stood up at attention, even though Don told him not to.
“On course, Captain. Everything in the green. Report from air technology said that the oxygen rate is holding steady.”
“At ease, Chief. Sit back down.” He looked him over, noting the wrinkled uniform—the chief was usually immaculate—and the dark hollows under the man’s eyes. “How long has it been since you had any bunktime?”
“I’m not quite sure, sir. But I feel fine. Not tired at all. Undoubtedly because I don’t drink or smoke and am always in bed by nine.”
“You’re a liar!” Don said, and they both smiled. “Are we in voice contact with Mars yet?”
“Not yet. But Dr. Ugalde showed me how to program the computer to cut a tape for any messages. Just give it to me and I’ll type it out.”
“It’s simple enough. Ask them to contact Earth and have the United Diagnostic Center in London stand by. I’m going to want a consultation. I’ll send a list of the symptoms, but get that message out first. It may take some time for them to set up a link.”
“Consultation, for sickness. This has something to do with those patients you have?”
“It certainly does. I’m going to tell you, as my second-in-command, but I don’t want it passed on. The first case appears to be getting serious. As far as I can tell, they all have the same thing. And I haven’t the slightest idea of what it is.”
The chief turned silently to the computer keyboard, and tapped in the message.
Don sat in the captain’s chair and tried to organize his thoughts. Disease, cure, symptoms, everything whirled and would not come together in any meaningful pattern . . .
The voice did not disturb him, and only the steady shaking of his arm brought Don back to consciousness. He opened his gummy eyes to see the chief bending over him.
“The United Diagnostic Center is standing by,” Kurikka said.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“About four hours, sir. I checked with the sick bay and you weren’t needed there. So I let you sleep.”
“You’re probably right, Chief—I certainly needed it.” He looked around. Sparks was adjusting the jury-rigged transmitter and a rating was making entries in the ship’s log. “Now I want you to transcribe a message for me.”
Don dictated all the symptoms of the mysterious disease, and all the medical data about his patients. Every fact that he knew, even the passengers’ names and addresses, so that their medical records on Earth could be consulted. Then he yawned and stretched as the coded tape was fitted into the transmitter.
“I’m going to wash up,” he said. “There’s plenty-of time before we can expect an answer. And see if you can’t have some coffee sent down.”
Don felt better than he had at any time since the nightmare events had begun, following the collision with the meteorite. He had had some sleep and, for a change, there were no pressing emergencies. There was the trouble with the disease, but he could share the responsibility for that with others. Before this he had been alone—but now he had all the tremendous medical resources of Earth behind him. It was a lot like using an elephant gun to shoot a gnat, but it did give him a feeling of security.
Mars Central relayed one message from London asking for some more details, and Don supplied what information he could. Rama reported no change in any of the patients, so Don could afford to relax—for the first time in how many days?—and sip his coffee. When the message finally came from the Diagnostic Center, he was not at all prepared for it.
“Hello, Big Joe, this is Mars Central calling. I have a message for Doctor Chase, from the United Diagnostic Center in London. Message follows. ‘We regret that there is no existing disease that matches the symptoms and details relayed to us. Please keep accurate records as this disease appears to be unique.’ End of message.”
Unique! Don was on his feet and the unbreakable glass cup was rolling across the deck, spilling a dark dribble of coffee.
There would be no help from the outside. He was alone with this problem, more alone than he had ever been before.
“That doesn’t sound so good,” Kurikka said. Don smiled grimly.
“Not so good is a great understatement. For some reason, they can’t seem to pinpoint the fever that is giving us trouble.”
“If it’s a fever, that doesn’t sound too bad. Another five, six days we’ll be orbiting Mars and they can send up all the doctors you need to help out.”
“That’s fine, as long as it is just a fever . . .”
Don cut off as the phone rang. Kurikka picked it up and listened for a moment before covering the mouthpiece.
“It’s Rama in the sick bay,” he said. “He wants you at once.”
“Did he say why?”
Kurikka looked around at the other men on the bridge and reached a decision.
“Yes. He said that the patient, Preece, he’s dead.”
12
THERE was nothing you could do, sir,” Rama said.
“Perhaps . . .” Don started to say, but could not finish. He knew that Rama was right. He turned away as Rama pulled the sheet up over the dead man’s face.
They had tried everything. Transfusions, cooling bath, heart stimulation, drugs, everything. And nothing had worked. Preece had died, just died, his life turned off like the switching off of a light bulb. All of the powers of modern medicine could do nothing to reverse the process.
“I can tell you now,” Rama said, in a low voice. “We have another two patients. I admitted them while you were working in here. Did London say what the disease is? What we can do to stop it?”
Don shook his head in a slow no, realizing that in the frantic rush to try to save the patient’s life, he had not yet told Rama Kusum about the last message.
“They have no idea what it is either. We are all alone in this.”
“But they must know,” Rama insisted. He had an almost religious respect for the unlimited powers of medicine. “They know about all diseases, so they must know about this disease.”
“They don’t appear to know a thing about this one.”
“That is impossible—unless it is a new disease.”
“Which it appears to be. How Preece was infected before he boarded this ship has now become only of academic interest. Since there will be no help from the outside, we shall have to stop it right here. So the first thing will be to prevent the spread of the infection. We will have to quarantine the sick bay, then make some arrangement to stop the spread to others. We must find out who the present patients may have contacted, then see if we cannot possibly separate them too.”
“That will be very hard to do in a ship this size.”
“Probably. And perhaps impossible. But we have to at least try. I’m going to the control room and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He phoned ahead and his officers were waiting when he came in. Sparks at the radio, Tyblewski from the engine room, the purser, and Kurikka. The chief must have received the message while he was shaving because one cheek was smooth while the other was covered with stiff bristles.
“At ease, sit down,” Don ordered, and wondered how to tell them.
Straight, it was the only way. They were trained spacemen and were not afraid to face facts.
“All of you here are volunteers—because I just volunteered for you. We have some cases of fever in the sick bay, and more coming in. And the first patient has just died. I can tell you, frankly, that no one even knows what the disease is. I am going to quarantine the sick bay and the bridge. I have been exposed to this disease, so I should quarantine myself in the sick bay alone. However I am still in command of this ship. I don’t really know how much risk of infection there is, but I am afraid that I must ask you all to stay on duty in the control room when I am here.”
“There’s nothing else to do, Captain. It couldn’t be any other way,” Kurikka said, speaking for all of them. “How is the quarantine going to work?”
“I want to isolate the sick bay. There are water taps there, and if we move in some boxes of dried rations it will be self-sufficient. Then I want to have all of the passengers transferred to the other side of the ship, as far away as possible. I know there will be complaints, but we should be used to them by now. Lastly, I want to set up a secondary area of quarantine for passengers who were exposed to anyone who is now down with the disease. Roommates, wives, friends. We don’t know how the disease is spread, but if we do this quickly enough we may be in time to slow it down. Purser, do you have your passenger list with you?”
Jonquet nodded and tapped the folder beside him.
“Good, then let’s go to work. I want the two lists as soon as it is possible.”
It was Chief Kurikka, the man who had helped build the Johannes Kepler, who noticed the relationship. He looked up suddenly from the control hoard while the names and compartment numbers were being called out. He frowned, and his frown deepened as the numbers were written down. Unnoticed by the others, he went to the chart cabinet and rifled through it. He produced a large blueprint and spread it out upon the table and studied it carefully. Only when he had verified his suspicion did he make it public.
“Captain, would you look at this, please?”
Don came over and stared at the blueprint, one of the cross-sections of the spaceship.
“What about it?” he asked.
The chief tapped it with a broad finger, then produced a stub of red pencil. “These are the compartments that were penetrated by that meteorite. The ones that were open to space, then sealed and pressurized again.” He drew a ring around each of them.
“Jonquet,” he called out, “will you read me the compartment numbers of the patients now in sick bay.”
As each number was read he tapped the compartment on the blueprint. Don looked on with growing disbelief. Only when the list was finished did he look up at the chief.
“Are you trying to suggest . . .”
“I’m not trying to suggest anything, sir,” Kurikka said grimly. “Just pointing out a fact.”
“But what kind of a fact is this? Every one of the patients now down with this fever is from a compartment that was holed. They had the good luck to be in other parts of the ship when the meteorite hit. But what can it mean? It has to be a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe much in coincidences, Captain. Not when so many people are involved. One, maybe two. But all of them?”
Don laughed. “It has to be a coincidence. Otherwise you are suggesting that there is some connection between the meteorite and this disease.”
“You’re suggesting it, sir. I’m just pointing out a fact.”
“There just can’t be a relationship!” Don paced back and forth, while the others looked on in silence. “All of the air was evacuated from those compartments. The temperature dropped. Then they were sealed and the air pumped back in. But no one returned until the temperature, everything, had returned to normal. It’s not a matter of just catching a cold, or anything like that.” He stopped dead, suddenly, his eyes widening.
“No, it’s an impossible thought,” he insisted. “Chief, what was our position when we were hit?” Kurikka pulled out another chart and pointed. “Roughly here, sir.” Don looked and nodded.
“Between Earth and Mars, on the plane of the ecliptic, correct?” Kurikka agreed. “Then, one important question, what else is on this plane, between Earth and Mars?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t be too quick to answer. What about the asteroids?”
Kurikka smiled and tapped the chart again. “Out here, Captain, way out between Mars and Jupiter, that’s where the asteroids are.”
“If I remember my astronomy, aren’t there some asteroids, like Apollo and Eros, whose orbits not only come inside the orbit of Mars, but inside the orbit of Earth as well?”
The smile faded from Kurikka’s face. “That’s true, I had forgotten about them.”
“Then—and this is the important question—if major asteroids are in this area, isn’t it possible that we were struck by a smaller fragment of asteroid, one of the pieces of space rock that make up the asteroid belt?”
“Very possible, sir. A very good chance that’s what it was. But what is the importance of this?”
“The importance is that the best theory of the origin of the asteroids that we have states that they are the debris of another planet that once existed in orbit between Mars and Jupiter. And the chunk that hit us was from this planet.”
There were baffled looks on all sides, but Jonquet was the first to understand where the train of supposition was heading.
“Mon Dieu!” he breathed, and his face was suddenly pale. “Are you suggesting that this disease, this fever, came from the meteorite? That this is a disease from a planet that was destroyed millions of years ago?”
“I’m suggesting just that. The idea is not as preposterous as it sounds. You must realize that I have given every test imaginable to the fever victims, and have made blood examinations, stool cultures, sputum and urinalaysis. This ship is equipped with a small electron microscope, and if there were any microorganisms there, I would have found them. But you can’t see a virus with this microscope. I am certain that this is a virus infection that we are battling, but I have no idea which virus it is. Now there are perhaps some facts about viruses that you may not know. They are the smallest forms of life, right on the borderline between living and inanimate matter. In fact some scientists don’t believe that they are alive at all. They have been constructed in laboratories from neutral chemicals, and the artificial forms were proven to be identical with the natural ones. Some of them, when dried, appear to be very stable and can be revitalized after many years in this state. We know that they remain unchanged for hundreds of years—so perhaps they can exist in this neutral condition for thousands, even millions of years.
“No wonder the disease could not be identified. It is a new one on Earth. Though it may have existed for a far longer time than we care to imagine. If this supposition is true, then we are the victims of a plague from another world. A disease against which our bodies have no defense at all, against which our medicines are totally ineffective.”
Jonquet’s whispered words were loud in the silence that followed.
“Then—we are all dead men . . .”
“No!” Don shouted, trying to break the aura of despair that filled the control room. “This may give us a chance. I have enough equipment aboard to construct a RNA analyzer and duplicator. I haven’t considered it before this because it is necessary to have only a single virus to duplicate, while there are many different kinds in our bloodstreams and those of the victims of the fever. I had no way of separating out the infectious strain, because that is a long and complicated laboratory procedure. But I do have a chance now to prepare a virucidal agent. Chief, don’t I remember your telling me something about the meteorite that hit us still being lodged somewhere in the ship?”
