Highways in Hiding

by George O. Smith

  VI

  I walked into the front office with a lot of self-assurance. The MedicalCenter was a big, rambling place with a lot of spread-out one- andtwo-story buildings that looked so much like "Hospital" that no one inthe world would have mistaken them for anything else. The main buildingwas by the road, the rest spread out behind as far as I could see;beyond my esper range even though the whole business was set in one ofthe clearest psi areas that I'd even been in.

  I was only mildly worried about telepaths. In the first place, the onlything I had to hide was my conviction about a secret organization andhow part of it functioned. In the second place, the chances were goodthat few, if any, telepaths were working there, if the case of Dr.Thorndyke carried any weight. That there were some telepaths, I did notdoubt, but these would not be among the high-powered help.

  So I sailed in and faced the receptionist, who was a good-lookingchemical-type blonde with a pale skin, lovely complexion and figure tomatch. She greeted me with a glacial calm and asked my business.

  Brazenly I lied. "I'm a freelance writer and I'm looking for material."

  "Have you an assignment?" she asked without a trace of interest in theanswer.

  "Not this time. I'm strictly freelance. I like it better this waybecause I can write whatever I like."

  Her glacial air melted a bit at the inference that my writing had notbeen in vain. "Where have you been published?" she asked.

  I made a fast stab in the dark, aiming in a direction that looked safe."Last article was one on the latest archeological findings in Assyria.Got my source material direct from the Oriental Institute in Chicago."

  "Too bad I missed it," she said, looking regretful. I had to grin, I'dcarefully avoided giving the name of the publication and the supposeddate. She went on, "I suppose you would not be happy with the usualpress release?"

  "Handouts contain material, all right, but they're so confounded triteand impersonal. People prefer to read anecdotes about the people ratherthan a listing of facts and figures."

  She nodded at that. "Just a moment," she said. Then she addressed hertelephone in a voice that I couldn't hear. When she finished, she smiledin a warmish-type manner as if to indicate that she'd gone all out in mybehalf and that I'd be a heel to forget it. I nodded back and tried tomatch the tooth-paste-ad smile. Then the door opened and a man came inbriskly.

  He was a tall man, as straight as a ramrod, with a firm jaw and aclose-clipped moustache. He had an air like a thin-man's Captain Bligh.When he spoke, his voice was as clipped and precise as his moustache; infact it was so precise that it seemed almost mechanical.

  "I am Dr. Lyon Sprague," he clipped. "What may I do for you?"

  "I'm Steve Cornell," I said. "I'm here after source material for amagazine article about Mekstrom's Disease. I'd prefer not to take mymaterial from a handout."

  "Do you hope to get more?" he demanded.

  "I usually do. I've seen your handouts; I could get as much by takinglast year's medical encyclopedia. Far too dry, too uninteresting, tooimpersonal."

  "Just exactly what do you have in mind?"

  I eyed him with speculation. Here was not a man who would take kindly toimaginative conjecture. So Dr. Lyon Sprague was not the man I'd like totalk to. With an inward smile, I said, "I have a rather new idea aboutMekstrom's that I'd like to discuss with the right party."

  He looked down at me, although our eyes were on the same level. "I doubtthat any layman could possibly come up with an idea that has not beenmost thoroughly discussed here among the research staff."

  "In cold words you feel that no untrained lunk has a right to have anidea."

  He froze. "I did not say that."

  "You implied, at least, that suggestions from outsiders were notwelcome. I begin to understand why the Medical Center has failed to getanywhere with Mekstrom's in the past twenty years."

  "What do you mean?" he snapped.

  "Merely that it is the duty of all scientists to listen to everysuggestion and to discard it only after it has been shown wrong."

  "Such as--?" he said coldly, with a curl of his eyebrows.

  "Well, just for instance, suppose some way were found to keep a victimalive during the vital period, so that he would end up a completeMekstrom Human."

  "The idea is utterly fantastic. We have no time for such idlespeculation. There is too much foggy thinking in the world already. Why,only last week we had a Velikovsky Adherent tell us that Mekstrom's hadbeen predicted in the Bible. There are still people reporting flyingsaucers, you know. We have no time for foolish notions or utternonsense."

  "May I quote you?"

  "Of course not," he snapped stiffly. "I'm merely pointing out thatnon-medical persons cannot have the grasp--"

  The door opened again and a second man entered. The new arrival hadpleasant blue eyes, a van dyke beard, and a good-natured air ofself-confidence and competence. "May I cut in?" he said to Dr. Sprague.

  "Certainly. Mr. Cornell, this is Scholar Phelps, Director of the Center.Scholar Phelps, this is Mr. Steve Cornell, a gentleman of the press," headded in a tone of voice that made the identification a sort of nastyname. "Mr. Cornell has an odd theory about Mekstrom's Disease that heintends to publish unless we can convince him that it is not possible."

  "Odd theory?" asked Scholar Phelps with some interest. "Well, if Mr.Cornell can come up with something new, I'll be most happy to hear himout."

  Dr. Lyon Sprague decamped with alacrity. Scholar Phelps smiled afterhim, then turned to me and said, "Dr. Sprague is a diligent worker,businesslike and well-informed, but he lacks the imagination and thesense of humor that makes a man brilliant in research. Unfortunately,Dr. Sprague cannot abide anything that is not laid out as neat as aninterlocking tile floor. Now, Mr. Cornell, how about this theory ofyours?"

  "First," I replied, "I'd like to know how come you turn up in the nickof time."

  He laughed good-naturedly. "We always send Dr. Sprague out to interviewvisitors. If the visitor can be turned away easily, all is well andquiet. Dr. Sprague can do the job with ease. But if the visitor, likeyourself, Mr. Cornell, proposes something that distresses the good Dr.Sprague and will not be loftily dismissed, Dr. Sprague's blood pressuregoes up. We all keep a bit of esper on his nervous system and when thefuse begins to blow, we come out and effect a double rescue."

  I laughed with him. Apparently the Medical Center staff enjoyed needlingDr. Sprague. "Scholar Phelps, before I get into my theory, I'd like toknow more about Mekstrom's Disease. I may not be able to use it in myarticle, but any background material works well with writers of factarticles."

  "You're quite right. What would you like to know?"

  "I've heard, too many times, that no one knows anything at all aboutMekstrom's. This is unbelievable, considering that you folks have beenworking on it for some twenty years."

  He nodded. "We have some, but it's precious little."

  "It seems to me that you could analyze the flesh--"

  He smiled. "We have. The state of analytical chemistry is well advanced.We could, I think, take a dry scraping out of the cauldron used byMacBeth's witches, and determine whether Shakespeare had reported theformula correctly. Now, young man, if you think that something is addedto the human flesh to make it Mekstrom's Flesh, you are wrong. Standardanalysis shows that the flesh is composed of exactly the same chemicalsthat normal flesh contains, in the same proportion. Nothing is added,as, for instance, in the case of calcification."

  "Then what is the difference?"

  "The difference lies in the structure. By X-ray crystallographic method,we have determined that Mekstrom's Flesh is a micro-crystallineformation, interlocked tightly." Scholar Phelps looked at methoughtfully. "Do you know much about crystallography?"

  As a mechanical engineer I did, but as a writer of magazine articles Ifelt I should profess some ignorance, so I merely said that I knew alittle about the subject.

  "Well, Mr. Cornell, you may know that in the field of solid geometrythere are only five
possible regular polyhedrons. Like the laws oftopology that state that no more than four colors need be used to printa map on a flat surface, or that no more than seven colors are requiredto print separate patches on a toroid, the laws of solid geometry provethat no more than five regular polyhedrons are possible. Now incrystallography there are only thirty-two possible classes of crystallattice construction. Of these only thirty have ever been discovered innature. Yet we know how the other two would appear if they did emerge innatural formation."

  I knew it all right but I made scribblings in my notebooks as if theidea were of interest. Scholar Phelps waited patiently until I'd madethe notation.

  "Now, Mr. Cornell, here comes the shock. Mekstrom's Flesh is one of theother two classes."

  This was news to me and I blinked.

  Then his face faded into a solemn expression. "Unfortunately," he saidin a low voice, "knowing how a crystal should form does not help us muchin forming one to that class. We have no real control over thearrangement of atoms in a crystal lattice. We can prevent the crystalformation, we can control the size of the crystal as it forms. But wecannot change the crystal into some other class."

  "I suppose it's sort of like baking a cake. Once the ingredients aremixed, the cake can be big or small or shaped to fit the pan, or you canspoil it complete. But if you mix devil's food, it either comes outdevil's food or nothing."

  "An amusing analogy and rather correct. However I prefer the one usedyears ago by Dr. Willy Ley, who observed that analysis is fine, but youcan't learn how a locomotive is built by melting it down and analyzingthe mess."

  Then he went on again. "To get back to Mekstrom's Disease and what weknow about it. We know that the crawl goes at about a sixty-fourth of aninch per hour. If, for instance, you turned up here with a trace on yourright middle finger, the entire first joint would be Mekstrom's Flesh inapproximately three days. Within two weeks your entire middle fingerwould be solid. Without anesthesia we could take a saw and cut off a bitfor our research."

  "No feeling?"

  "None whatever. The joints knit together, the arteries become as hard assteel tubing and the heart cannot function properly--not that the heartcares about minor conditions such as the arteries in the extremities,but as the Mekstrom infection crawls up the arm toward the shoulder thelarger arteries become solid and then the heart cannot drive the bloodthrough them in its accustomed fashion. It gets like an advanced case ofarteriosclerosis. Eventually the infection reaches and immobilizes theshoulder; this takes about ninety days. By this time, the otherextremities have also become infected and the crawl is coming up allfour limbs."

  He looked at me very solemnly at that. "The rest is not pretty. Deathcomes shortly after that. I can almost say that he is blessed whocatches Mekstrom's in the left hand for them the infection reaches theheart before it reaches other parts. Those whose initial infection is inthe toes are particularly cursed, because the infection reaches thelower parts of the body. I believe you can imagine the result,elimination is prevented because of the stoppage of peristalsis. Deathcomes of autointoxication, which is slow and painful."

  I shuddered at the idea. The thought of death has always bothered me.The idea of looking at a hand and knowing that I was going to die by thecalendar seemed particularly horrible.

  Taking the bit between my teeth, I said, "Scholar Phelps, I've beenwondering whether you and your Center have ever considered treatingMekstrom's by helping it?"

  "Helping it?" he asked.

  "Sure. Consider what a man might be if he were Mekstrom's all the waythrough."

  He nodded. "You would have a physical superman," he said. "Steel-strongmuscles driving steel-hard flesh covered by a near impenetrable skin.Perhaps such a man would be free of all minor pains and ills. Imagine anormal bacterium trying to bore into flesh as hard as concrete. MekstromFlesh tends to be acid-resistant as well as tough physically. It is notbeyond the imagination to believe that your Mekstrom Superman might livethree times our frail four-score and ten. But--"

  Here he paused.

  "Not to pull down your house of cards, this idea is not a new one. Someyears ago we invited a brilliant young doctor here to study for hisscholarate. The unfortunate fellow arrived with the first traces ofMekstrom's in his right middle toe. We placed about a hundred of ourmost brilliant researchers under his guidance, and he decided to takethis particular angle of study. He failed; for all his efforts, he didnot stay his death by a single hour. From that time to the present wehave maintained one group on this part of the problem."

  It occurred to me at that moment that if I turned up with a trace ofMekstrom's I'd be seeking out the Highways in Hiding rather than theMedical Center. That fast thought brought a second: Suppose that Dr.Thorndyke learned that he had a trace, or rather, the Highways found itout. What better way to augment their medical staff than to approach thevictim with a proposition: You help us, work with us, and we will saveyour life.

  That, of course, led to the next idea: That if the Highways in Hidinghad any honest motive, they'd not be hidden in the first place andthey'd have taken their cure to the Medical Center in the second. Well,I had a bit of something listed against them, so I decided to let mybombshell drop.

  "Scholar Phelps," I said quietly, "one of the reasons I am here is thatI have fairly good evidence that the cure for Mekstrom's Disease doesexist, and that it produces people of ultrahard bodies and superhumanstrength."

  He smiled at me with the same tolerant air that father uses on theoffspring who comes up with one of the standard juvenile plans forperpetual motion.

  "What do you consider good evidence?"

  "Suppose I claimed to have seen it myself."

  "Then I would say that you had misinterpreted your evidence," he repliedcalmly. "The flying saucer enthusiasts still insist that the things theysee are piloted by little green men from Venus, even though we have beenthere and found Venus to be absolutely uninhabited by anything higherthan slugs, grubs, and little globby animals like Tellurian leeches."

  "But--"

  "This, too, is an old story," he told me with a whimsical smile. "Itgoes with the standard routine about a secret organization that isintending to take over the Earth. The outline has been popular eversince Charles Fort. Now--er--just tell me what you saw."

  I concocted a tale that was about thirty-three percent true and the restpartly distorted. It covered my hitting a girl in Ohio with my car, hardenough to clobber her. But when I stopped to help her, she got up andran away unhurt. She hadn't left a trace of blood although the frontfender of the car was badly smashed.

  He nodded solemnly. "Such things happen," he said. "The human body isreally quite durable; now and then comes the lucky happenstance when thefearful accident does no more than raise a slight bruise. I've read thestory of the man whose parachute did not open and who lived to return itto the factory in person, according to the old joke. But now, Mr.Cornell, have you ever considered the utter impossibility of running anysort of secret organization in this world of today. Even before Rhine itwas difficult. You'll be adding to your tale next--some sort of secretsign, maybe a form of fraternity grip, or perhaps even a world-widesystem of local clubs and hangouts, all aimed at some dire purpose."

  I squirmed nervously for a bit. Scholar Phelps was too close to thetruth to make me like it, because he was scoffing. He went right onmaking me nervous.

  "Now before we get too deep, I only want to ask about the probablemotives of such an organization. You grant them superhuman strength,perhaps extreme longevity. If they wanted to take over the Earth,couldn't they do it by a show of force? Or are they mild-manneredsupermen, only quietly interested in overrunning the human race andwaiting out the inevitable decline of normal homo sapiens? You're notendowing them with extraterrestrial origin, are you?"

  I shook my head unhappily.

  "Good. That shows some logic, Mr. Cornell. After all, we know now thatwhile we could live on Mars or Venus with a lot of home-sent aid, we'dbe most uncomfortable there. We c
ould not live a minute on any planet ofour solar system without artificial help."

  "I might point out that our hypothetical superman might be able to standa lot of rough treatment," I blurted.

  "Oh, this I'll grant if your tale held any water at all. But let'sforget this fruitless conjecture and take a look at the utterimpossibility of running such an organization. Even planting all oftheir secret hangouts in dead areas and never going into urban centers,they'd still find some telepath or esper on their trail. Perhaps a team.Let's go back a step and consider, even without psi training, how longsuch an outfit could function. It would run until the first specimen hadan automobile accident on, say Times Square; or until one of themwalked--or ran--out of the fire following a jetliner crash."

  He then spared me with a cold eye. "Write it as fiction, Mr. Cornell.But leave my name out of it. I thought you were after facts."

  "I am. But the better fact articles always use a bit of speculation toliven it up."

  "Well," he grunted, "one such fanciful suggestion is the possibility ofsuch an underground outfit being able to develop a 'cure' while wecannot. We, who have had the best of brains and money for twenty years."

  I nodded, and while I did not agree with Phelps, I knew that to insistwas to insult him to his face, and get myself tossed out.

  "You do seem to have quite a set-up here," I said, off-hand.

  At this point Phelps offered to show me around the place, and Iaccepted. Medical Center was far larger than I had believed at first; itspread beyond my esper range into the hills beyond the main plant. Thebuildings were arranged in a haphazard-looking pattern out in the backsection; I say "looking" because only a psi-trained person can dig apattern. The wide-open psi area did not extend for miles. Behind themain buildings it closed down into the usual mottled pattern and themedical buildings had been placed in the open areas. Dwellings anddormitories were in the dark places. A nice set-up.

  I did not meet any of the patients, but Phelps let me stand in thecorridor outside a couple of rooms and use my esper on the flesh. It wasboth distressing and instructive.

  He explained, "The usual thing after someone visits this way, is thatthe visitor goes out itching. In medical circles this is a form of whatwe call 'Sophomore's Syndrome.' Ever heard of it?"

  I nodded. "That's during the first years at pre-med. Knowing all toolittle of medicine, every disease they study produces the same symptomsthat the student finds in himself. Until tomorrow, when they study thenext. Then the symptoms in the student change."

  "Right. So in order to prevent 'Sophomore's Syndrome' among visitors weusually let them study the real thing. Also," he added seriously, "we'dlike to have as many people as possible recognize the real thing asearly as possible. Even though we can't do anything for them at thepresent time, someday we will."

  He stopped before a closed door. "In here is a girl of eighteen, doomedto die in a month." His voice trailed off as he tapped on the door ofthe room.

  I froze. A few beads of cold sweat ran down my spine, and I foughtmyself into a state of nervous calmness. I put the observation away,buried it as deep as I could, tried to think around it, and so far as Iknew, succeeded.

  The tap of Scholar Phelps' finger against the door panel was therap-rap-rap sound characteristic of hard-tanned leather tapping wood.

  Scholar Phelps was a Mekstrom!

  * * * * *

  I paid only surface attention to the rest of my visit. I thanked mypersonal gods that esper training had also given me the ability todissemble. It was impossible to not think of something but it ispossible to keep the mind so busy with surface thoughts that theunderlying idea does not come through the interference.

  Eventually I managed to leave the Medical Center without excitinganyone, and when I left I took off like a skyrocket for Chicago.