“I know there’s something wrong with you,” Jonas said quietly. “It’s obvious. I don’t think you should be left alone. I’m making it my responsibility to see that nothing happens to you.” He added in a low voice, “You’re too valuable to us to do something terminal.” Again, and this time with harsh firmness, he took hold of her arm. “Come on; let’s go downstairs to your office—it’ll do you good to get wrapped up in your work, and I’ll just sit quietly, not interfering. After work tonight I’ll fly you up to L. A. to Spingler’s for dinner; I know you like sea food.” He guided her toward the door of the office.
She thought, I’ll get away. You’re not that smart, Jonas; sometime today, perhaps tonight, I’ll lose you and go to Cheyenne. Or rather, she thought with nausea and an upsurge of her former terror, I’ll lose you, dump you, slip away from you in the labyrinth that’s the night city of Tijuana, where all kinds of things, some of them terrible, some of them wonderful and full of beauty, happen. Tijuana will be too much for you. It’s almost too much for me. And I know it fairly well; I’ve spent so much of my time, my life, in Tijuana at night.
And look how it’s worked out, she thought bitterly. I wanted to find something pure and mystical in life and instead I wound up spliced to people who hate us, who dominate our race. Our ally, she thought. We ought to be fighting them; it’s clear to me now. If I ever get to see Molinari alone at Cheyenne—and maybe I will—I’ll tell him that, tell him we have the wrong ally and the wrong enemy.
“Mr. Ackerman,” she said, turning urgently to Virgil. “I have to go to Cheyenne to tell the Secretary something. It affects all of us; it has to do with the war effort.”
Virgil Ackerman said drily, “Tell me and I’ll tell him. There’s a better chance that way; you’ll never get to see him … not unless you’re one of his bambinos or cousins.”
“That’s it,” she said. “I’m his child.” It made perfect sense to her; all of them on Terra were children of the UN Secretary. And they had been expecting their father to lead them to safety. But somehow he had failed.
Unresistingly, she followed Jonas Ackerman. “I know what you’re doing,” she said to him. “You’re using this opportunity, with Eric away and me in this terrible state, to take sexual advantage of me.”
Jonas laughed. “Well, we’ll see.” His laugh, to her, did not sound guilty; it sounded sleekly confident.
“Yes,” she agreed, thinking of the ’Star policeman Corning. “We’ll see how lucky you are in making out with me. Personally I wouldn’t bet on it.” She did not bother to remove his big, determined hand from her shoulder; it would only reappear.
“You know,” Jonas said, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say from the way you’ve been acting that you’re on a substance which we call JJ-180.” He added, “But you couldn’t be because there’s no way you could get hold of it.”
Staring at him, Kathy said, “What—” She couldn’t go on.
“It’s a drug,” Jonas said. “Developed by one of our subsidiaries.”
“It wasn’t developed by the reegs?”
“Frohedadrine, or JJ-180, was developed in Detroit, last year, by a firm which TF&D controls called Hazeltine Corporation. It’s a major weapon in the war—or will be when it’s in production, which will be later this year.”
“Because,” she said numbly, “it’s so addictive?”
“Hell no. Many drugs are addictive, starting with the opium derivatives. Because of the nature of the hallucinations it causes its users.” He explained, “It’s hallucinogenic, as LSD was.”
Kathy said, “Tell me about the hallucinations.”
“I can’t; that’s classified military information.”
Laughing sharply, she said, “Oh God—so the only way I could find out would be to take it.”
“How can you take it? It’s not available, and even when it’s in production we wouldn’t conceivably under any circumstances allow our own population to use it—the stuff’s toxic!” He glared at her. “Don’t even talk about using it; every test animal to which it was administered died. Forget I even mentioned it; I thought Eric had probably told you about it—I shouldn’t have brought it up, but you have been acting strangely; it made me think of JJ-180 because I’m so scared—we all are—that someone, some way, will get hold of it on the domestic market, one of our own people.”
Kathy said, “Let’s hope that never happens.” She felt like laughing, still; the whole thing was insane. The ’Starmen had obtained the drug on Terra but pretended to have gotten it from the reegs. Poor Terra, she thought. We can’t even get credit for this, for this noxious, destructive chemical which destroys the mind—as Jonas says, a potent weapon of war. And who’s using it? Our ally. And on whom? On us. The irony is complete; it forms a circle. Certainly cosmic justice that a Terran should be one of the first to become addicted to it.
Frowning, Jonas said, “You asked if JJ-180 hadn’t been developed by the enemy; that suggests you have heard of it. So Eric did mention it to you. It’s all right; only knowledge of its properties is classified, not its existence. The reegs know we’ve been experimenting with drug warfare for decades, back into the twentieth century. It’s one of Terra’s specialties.” He chuckled.
“Maybe we’ll win after all,” Kathy said. “That ought to cheer up Gino Molinari. Perhaps he’ll be able to stay in office with the assistance of a few new miracle weapons. Is he counting on this? Does he know?”
“Of course Molinari knows; Hazeltine has kept him informed at every stage of development. But for chrissake don’t go and—”
“I won’t get you in trouble,” Kathy said. I think I’ll get you addicted to JJ-180, she said to herself. That’s what you deserve; everyone who helped develop it, who knows about it. Stay with me night and day during the next twenty-four hours, she thought. Eat with me, go to bed with me, and by the time it’s over you’ll be earmarked for death just as I am. And then, she thought, maybe I can get Eric on it. Him most of all.
I’ll carry it with me to Cheyenne, Kathy decided. Infect everyone there, the Mole and his entourage. And for a good reason.
They’ll be forced to discover a method of breaking the addiction. Their own lives will depend on it, not just mine. And for me alone it wouldn’t be worth seeking; even Eric wouldn’t have tried, and certainly Corning and his people don’t care—no one cares about me, when you get right down to it.
This was probably not at all what Corning and those above him had in mind in sending her to Cheyenne. But that was just too bad; this was what she intended to do.
“It’ll go in their water supply,” Jonas was explaining. “The Reegs—they maintain huge central water sources, as Mars did once. JJ-180 will be introduced there, carried throughout their planet. I admit it sounds desperate on our part, a—you know. A tour de force. But actually it’s very rational and reasonable.”
“I’m not criticizing it at all,” Kathy said. “In fact I think the idea sounds brilliant.”
The elevator arrived; they entered and descended.
“Look what the ordinary citizen of Terra doesn’t know,” Kathy said. “He goes merrily on about his daily life … it would never occur to him that his government has developed a drug that in one exposure turns you into a—how would you put it, Jonas? Something less than a robant? Certainly less than human. I wonder where you would place it on the evolutionary ladder.”
“I never told you that one exposure to JJ-180 meant addiction,” Jonas said. “Eric must have told you that.”
“With the lizards of the Jurassic Period,” Kathy decided. “Things with tiny brains and immense tails. Creatures with almost no mentalities; just reflex machines acting out the externals of living, going through the motions but not actually there. Right?”
“Well,” Jonas said, “it’s reegs that’ll be receiving the drug; I wouldn’t waste any tears on reegs.”
“I’d waste a tear on anything,” Kathy said, “that got hooked by JJ-180. I hate it; I wish—” Sh
e broke off. “Don’t mind me; I’m just upset by Eric’s leaving. I’ll be okay.” To herself she wondered when she would have an opportunity to look for Corning. And get more capsules of the drug. It was clear now that she had become an addict. By now she had to face it.
She felt only resignation.
At noon, in the neat, modern, but excessively small conapt provided him by the mystifying workings of the higher governmental authorities of Cheyenne, Dr. Eric Sweetscent finished reading the medical charts on his new patient—referred to throughout the enormous body of writings merely as “Mr. Brown.” Mr. Brown, he reflected as he locked the folio back in its unbreakable plastic box, is a sick man, but his sickness simply could not be diagnosed, at least in the customary way. Because—and this was the odd thing, for which Teagarden had not prepared him—the patient had shown, over the years, symptoms of major organic diseases, symptoms not associated with psychosomatic disorders. There had been at one time a malignancy in the liver which had metastasized—and yet Mr. Brown had not died. And the malignancy had gone away. Anyhow it was not there now; tests during the last two years proved that. An exploratory operation had even been performed, finally, and Mr. Brown’s liver had not even shown the degeneracy anticipated in a man of his age.
It was the liver of a youth of nineteen or twenty.
And this oddity had been observed in other organs subjected to acute examination. But Mr. Brown was failing in his overall powers; palpably, he was in the process of declining—he looked considerably older than his chronological age, and the aura around him was one of ill health. It was as if his body on a purely physiological level were growing younger while his essence, his total psychobiological Gestalt, aged naturally—in fact failed conspicuously.
Whatever physiological force it was that maintained him organically, Mr. Brown was not receiving any benefit there from, except of course that he had not died of the malignant tumor in his liver or the earlier one detected in his spleen, or the surely fatal cancer of the prostate gland which had gone undetected during his third decade.
Mr. Brown was alive—but just barely so. Throughout, his body was overworked and in a state of deterioration; take his circulatory system, for instance. Brown’s blood pressure was 220—despite vasodilators administered orally; already his eyesight had been materially affected. And yet, Eric reflected, Brown would undoubtedly surmount this as he had every other ailment; one day it would simply go away, even though he refused to stay on the prescribed diet and did not respond to reserpine.
The outstanding fact was simply that Mr. Brown had had at one time or another almost every serious disease known, from infarcts in his lungs to hepatitis. He was a perambulating symposium of illness, never well, never functioning properly; at any given time some vital portion of his body was affected. And then—
In some fashion he had cured himself. And without the use of artiforgs. It was as if Brown practiced some folk-style, homeopathic medicine, some idiotic herbal remedy which he had never disclosed to his attending physicians. And probably never would.
Brown needed to be sick. His hypochondriasis was real; he did not merely have hysterical symptoms—he had true diseases which usually turned the patient into a terminal case. If this was hysteria, a variety of purely psychological complaint, Eric had never run across it before. And yet, despite this, Eric had the intuition that all these illnesses had existed for a reason; they were engendered from the complexity, the undisclosed depths, of Mr. Brown’s psyche.
Three times in his life Mr. Brown had given himself cancer. But how? And—why?
Perhaps it arose from his death wish. And each time, Mr. Brown halted at the brink, pulled himself back. He needed to be sick—but not to die. The suicide wish, then, was spurious.
This was important to know. If it was so, Mr. Brown would fight to survive—would fight against the very thing he had hired Eric to bring about.
Therefore Mr. Brown would be an exceedingly difficult patient. To say the least. And all this—beyond doubt—functioned at an unconscious level; Mr. Brown was certainly unaware of his twin, opposing drives.
The door chimes of the conapt sounded. He went to answer—and found himself facing an official-looking individual in a natty business suit. Producing identification, the man explained, “Secret Service, Dr. Sweetscent. Secretary Molinari needs you; he’s in a good deal of pain so we’d better hurry.”
“Of course.” Eric dashed to the closet for his coat; a moment later he and the Secret Service man were hiking toward the parked wheel. “More abdominal pains?” Eric asked.
“Now the pains seem to have shifted over to his left side,” the Secret Service man said as he piloted the wheel out into traffic. “In the region of his heart.”
“He didn’t describe them as feeling as if a great hand was pressing down on him, did he?”
“No, he’s just lying there groaning. And asking for you.” The Secret Service man seemed to take it matter-of-factly; evidently for him this was old and familiar. The Secretary, after all, was always sick.
Presently they had reached the UN White House and Eric was descending by in-track. If only I could install an artiforg, he reflected. It would end all this—
But it was clear to him, now that he had read the file, why Molinari refused artiforg transplant on principle. If he accepted a transplant he would recover; the ambiguity of his existence—hovering between illness and health—would cease. His twin drives would be resolved in favor of health. Hence the delicate psychic dynamism would be upset and Molinari would be delivered over to one of the two forces striving for mastery within him. And this he could not afford to do.
“This way, doctor.” The Secret Service man led him down a corridor, to a door at which several uniformed police stood. They stepped aside and Eric entered.
In the center of the room, in a vast rumpled bed, lay Gino Molinari, on his back, watching a television set fixed to the ceiling. “I’m dying, doctor,” Molinari said, turning his head. “I think these pains are coming from my heart now. It probably was my heart all the time.” His face, enlarged and florid, shone with sweat.
Eric said, “We’ll run an EKG on you.”
“No, I had that, about ten minutes ago; it showed nothing. My illness is too goddam subtle for your instruments to detect. That doesn’t mean it’s not there. I’ve heard of people who’ve had massive coronaries and have taken EKGs and nothing showed up; isn’t that a fact? Listen, doctor. I know something that you don’t. You wonder why I have these pains. Our ally—our partner in this war. They’ve got a master plan which includes seizing Tijuana Fur & Dye; they showed me the document—they’re that confident. They’ve got an agent planted in your firm already. But I’m telling you in case I die suddenly from this ailment; I could go any minute, you know that.”
“Did you tell Virgil Ackerman?” Eric asked.
“I started to but—Christ, how can you tell an old man something like that? He doesn’t understand what sort of things go on in an all-out war; this is nothing, this seizing of Terra’s major industries. This is probably only the beginning.”
“Now that I know,” Eric said, “I feel I should tell Virgil.”
“Okay, tell him,” Molinari grated. “Maybe you can find a way. I was going to when we were at Wash-35 but—” He rolled in pain. “Do something for me, doctor; this is killing me!”
Eric gave him an intravenous injection of morprocaine and the UN Secretary quieted.
“You just don’t know,” Molinari mumbled in a lulled, relaxed voice, “what I’m up against with these ’Starmen. I did my best to keep them off us, doctor.” He added, “I don’t feel the pain now; what you did seems to have taken care of it.”
Eric asked, “When are they going ahead with seizing TF&D? Soon?”
“A few days. Week. Elastic schedule. It makes a drug they’re interested in … you probably don’t know. Neither do I. In fact I don’t know anything, doctor; that’s the whole secret of my situation. Nobody tells me a thing.
Even you; what’s wrong with me, for instance—you won’t tell me that, I bet.”
To one of the watching Secret Service men Eric said, “Where can I find a vidphone booth?”
“Don’t go off,” Molinari said, from his bed, half rising. “The pain would come back right away; I can tell. What I want you to do is get Mary Reineke here; I need to talk to her, now that I’m feeling better. See, doctor, I haven’t told her about it, about how sick I am. And don’t you, either; she needs to hold an idealized image of me. Women are like that; to love a man they have to look up to him, glorify him. See?”
“But when she sees you lying in bed doesn’t she think—”
“Oh, she knows I’m sick; she just doesn’t know that it’s fatal. You see?”
Eric said, “I promise I won’t tell her it’s fatal.”
“Is it?” Molinari’s eyes flew open in alarm.
“Not to my knowledge,” Eric said. Cautiously he added, “Anyhow, I learn from your file that you’ve survived several customarily fatal illnesses, including cancer of—”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I get depressed when I’m reminded how many times I’ve had cancer.”
“I should think—”
“That it would elate me that I recovered? No, because maybe the next time I’m not going to recover. I mean, sooner or later it’ll get me, and before my job is done. And what’ll happen to Terra then? You figure it out; you make an educated guess.”
“I’ll go and contact Miss Reineke for you,” Eric said, and started toward the door of the room. A Secret Service man detached himself to lead the way to the vidphone.
Outside in the corridor the Secret Service man said in a low voice, “Doctor, there’s an illness on level three, one of the White House cooks passed out about an hour ago; Dr. Teagarden’s with him and wants you for a confab.”
“Certainly,” Eric said. “I’ll look in on him before I make my phone call.” He followed the Secret Service man to the elevator.
In the White House dispensary he found Dr. Teagarden. “I needed you,” Teagarden said at once, “because you’re an artiforg man; this is a clear case of angina pectoris and we’re going to need an org-trans right away. I assume you brought at least one heart with you.”
Now Wait for Last Year Page 9