Highways in Hiding

by George O. Smith

  XVI

  The bailiff repeated, "Come along, Cornell." Then he added sourly, "OrI'll have to slip the cuffs on you."

  I turned with a helpless shrug. I'd tried to lick 'em and I'd tried tojoin 'em and I'd failed both. Then, as of this instant when I might havebeen able to go join 'em, I was headed for the wrong side as soon as Iopened my big yap. And if I didn't yelp, I was a dead one anyway. Sooneror later someone in the local jug would latch on to my condition andpack me off to Scholar Phelps' Medical Center.

  Once more I was in a situation where all I could do was to play it byear, wait for a break, and see if I could make something out of it.

  But before I could take more than a step or two toward the big door,someone in the back of the courtroom called out:

  "Your Honor, I have some vital information in this case."

  His Honor looked up across the court with a great amount of irritationshowing in his face. His voice rasped, "Indeed?"

  I whirled, shocked.

  Suavely, Dr. Thorndyke strode down the aisle. He faced the judge andexplained who he was and why, then he backed it up with a wallet full ofcredentials, cards, identification, and so forth. The judge looked theshebang over sourly but finally nodded agreement. Thorndyke smiledself-confidently and then went on, facing me:

  "It would be against my duty to permit you to incarcerate thismiscreant," he said smoothly. "Because Mr. Cornell has Mekstrom'sDisease!"

  Everybody faded back and away from me as though he'd announced me to bethe carrier of plague. They looked at me with horror and disgust ontheir faces, a couple of them began to wipe their hands withhandkerchiefs; one guy who'd been standing where I'd dropped my littlepatch of Mekstrom Flesh backed out of that uncharmed circle. Some of thespectators left hurriedly.

  His Honor paled. "You're certain?" he demanded of Dr. Thorndyke.

  "I'm certain. You'll note the blood on his finger; Cornell recentlypicked off a patch of Mekstrom Flesh no larger than the head of a pin.It was his first sign." The doctor went on explaining, "Normally thisearly seizure would be difficult to detect, except from a clinicalexamination. But since I am telepath and Cornell has perception, his ownmind told me he was aware of his sorry condition. One only need read hismind, or to dig at the tiny bit of Mekstrom Flesh that he dropped toyour floor."

  The judge eyed me nastily. "Maybe I should add a charge of contaminatinga courtroom," he muttered. He was running his eyes across the floor fromme to wherever I'd been, trying to locate the little patch. I helped himby not looking at it. The rest of the court faded back from me stillfarther. I could hardly have been less admired if I'd been made of purecyanide gas.

  The judge rapped his gavel sharply. "I parole this prisoner in thecustody of Dr. Thorndyke, who as a representative of the Medical Centerwill remove the prisoner to that place where the proper treatment awaitshim."

  "Now see here--" I started. But His Honor cut me off.

  "You'll go as I say," he snapped. "Unfortunately, the Law does notpermit me to enjoy any cruel or unusual punishments, or I'd insist uponyour ninety-day sentence and watch you die painfully. I--Bailiff! Removethis menace before I forget my position here and find myself in contemptof the law I have sworn to uphold. I cannot be impartial before a manwho contaminates my Court with the world's most dangerous disease!"

  I turned to Thorndyke. "All right," I grunted. "You win."

  He smiled again; I wanted to wipe that smile away with a set of knucklesbut I knew that all I'd get would be a broken hand against Thorndyke'sstone-hard flesh. "Now, Mr. Cornell," he said with that clinicalsmoothness, "let's not get the old standard attitude."

  "Nearly everybody who contracts Mekstrom's Disease," he said to thejudge, "takes on a persecution complex as soon as he finds out that hehas it. Some of them have even accused me of fomenting some bigfantastic plot against them. Please, Mr. Cornell," he went on facing me,"we'll give you the best of treatment that Medical Science knows."

  "Yeah," I grunted.

  His Honor rapped on the gavel once more. "Officer Gruenwald," hesnapped, "you will accompany the prisoner and Dr. Thorndyke to theMedical Center and having done that you will return to report to me thatyou have accomplished your mission."

  Then the judge glared around, rapped once more, and cried, "CaseFinished. Next Case!"

  I felt almost as sorry for the next guy coming in as I felt for myself.His Honor was going to be one tough baby for some days to come. As theyescorted me out, a janitor came in and began to swab the floor where I'dbeen standing. He was using something nicely corrosive that made theicy, judicial eyes water, all of which discomfort was likely to be addedto the next law-breaker's sorry lot.

  * * * * *

  I was in fine company. Thorndyke was a telepath and Officer Gruenwaldwas perceptive. They went as a team and gave me about as much chance toescape as if I'd been a horned toad sealed in a cornerstone. Gruenwald,of course, treated me as though my breath was deadly, my touch foul, andmy presence evil. In Gruenwald's eyes, the only difference between meand Medusa the Gorgon was that looking at me did not turn him to stone.He kept at least one eye on me almost constantly.

  I could almost perceive Thorndyke's amusement. With the best of socialamenities, he could hardly have spent a full waking day in the companyof either a telepath or a perceptive without giving away the fact thathe was Mekstrom. But with me to watch over, Officer Gruenwald's mentalattention was not to be turned aside to take an impolite dig at hiscompanion. Even if he had, Thorndyke would have been there quickly toturn his attention aside.

  I've read the early books that contain predictions of how we aresupposed to operate. The old boys seemed to have the quaint notion thata telepath should be able at once to know everything that goes oneverywhere, and a perceptive should be aware of everything materialabout him. There should be no privacy. There was to be no defenseagainst the mental peeping Tom.

  It ain't necessarily so. If Gruenwald had taken a dig at Thorndyke'shide, the doctor would have speared the policeman with a cold, indignanteye and called him for it. Of course, there was no good reason forGruenwald to take a dig at Thorndyke and so he didn't.

  So I went along with the status quo and tried to think of some way tobreak it up.

  An hour later I was still thinking, and the bleeding on my finger hadstopped. Mekstrom Flesh had covered the raw spot with a thin, stone-hardplate that could not be separated visually from the rest of my skin.

  "As a perceptive," observed Dr. Thorndyke in a professional tone,"you'll notice the patch of infection growing on Mr. Cornell's finger.The rate of growth seems normal; I'll have to check it accurately once Iget him to the clinic. In fifty or sixty hours, Mr. Cornell's fingerwill be solid to the first joint. In ninety days his arm will havebecome as solid as the arm of a marble statue."

  I interjected, "And what do we do about it?"

  He moved his head a bit and eyed me in the rear view mirror. "I hope wecan help you, Cornell," he said in a tone of sympathy that wasdefinitely intended to impress Officer Gruenwald with his medicalappreciation of the doctor's debt to humanity. "I sincerely hope so. Forin doing so, we will serve the human race. And," he admitted with anentirely human-sounding selfishness, "I may be able to deliver a thesison the cure that will qualify me for my scholarate."

  I took a fast stab: "Doctor, how does my flesh differ from yours?"

  Thorndyke parried this attention-getting question: "Mine is of noconsequence. Dig your own above and below the line of infection,Cornell. If your sense of perception has been trained fine enough, digthe actual line of infection and watch the molecular structurerearrange. Can you dig that fine, Officer? Cornell, I hate to dwell atlength upon your misfortune, but perhaps I can help you face it bybringing the facts to light."

  #Like the devil you hate to dwell, Doctor Mekstrom!#

  In the rear view mirror, his lips parted in a bland smile and one eyeliddropped in a knowing wink.

  I opened my mouth to make another stab in the
open but Thorndyke gotthere first. "Officer Gruenwald," he suggested, "you can help by puttingout your perception along the road ahead and seeing how it goes. I'dlike to make tracks with this crate."

  Gruenwald nodded.

  Thorndyke put the goose-pedal down and the car took off with a howl ofpassing wind. He said with a grin, "It isn't very often that I get achance to drive like this, but as long as I've an officer with me--"

  He was above one forty by the time he let his voice trail off.

  I watched the back of their heads for a moment. At this speed, Thorndykewould have both his mind and his hands full and the cop would be diggingat the road as far ahead as his perception could dig a clearappreciation of the road and its hazards. Thorndyke's telepathy would beoccupied in taking this perception and using it. That left me free tothink.

  I cast a dig behind me, as far behind me as my perception would reach.Nothing.

  I thought furiously. It resulted in nothing.

  I needed either a parachute or a full set of Mekstrom Hide to get out ofthis car now. With either I might have taken a chance and jumped. But asit was, the only guy who could scramble out of this car was Dr. JamesThorndyke.

  I caught his dropping eyelid in the rear view mirror again and swore athim under my breath.

  Time, and miles, went past. One after the other, very fast. We hissedthrough towns where the streets had been opened for us and along broadstretches of highway and between cars and trucks running at normalspeeds. One thing I must say for Thorndyke: He was almost as good adriver as I.

  * * * * *

  My second arrival at the Medical Center was rather quiet. I went in theservice entrance, so to speak, and didn't get a look at the enamelledblonde at the front portal. They whiffed me in at a broad gate that wasopened by a flunky and we drove for another mile through the grounds farfrom the main road. We ended up in front of a small brick building andas we went through the front office into a private place, Thorndyke tolda secretary that she should prepare a legal receipt for my person. I didnot like being bandied about like a hunk of merchandise, but nobodyseemed to care what I thought. It was all very fast and efficient. I'dbarely seated myself and lit a cigarette when the nurse came in with thedocument which Thorndyke signed, she witnessed, and was subsequentlyhanded to Officer Gruenwald.

  "Is there any danger of me--er--contracting--" he faltered uncertainlyto Dr. Thorndyke.

  "You'll notice that--" I started to call attention to Thorndyke'scalmness at being in my presence and was going to invite Gruenwald totake a dig at the doctor's hide, but once more the doctor blocked me.

  "None of us have ever found any factor of contagion," he said. "And welive among Mekstrom Cases. You'll notice Miss Clifton's lack ofconcern."

  Miss Clifton, the nurse, turned a calm face to the policeman and gavehim her hand. Miss Clifton had a face and a figure that was enough tomake a man forget anything. She knew her part very well; together, thenurse and the policeman left the office together and I wondered just whya non-Mekstrom would have anything to do with an outfit like this.

  Thorndyke smiled and said, "I won't tell you, Steve. What you don't knowwon't hurt anybody."

  "Mind telling me what I'm slated for? The high jump? Going to watch mewrithing in pain as my infection climbs toward my vitals? Going toamputate? Or are you going to cut it off inch by inch and watch mesuffer?"

  "Steve, some things you know already. One, that you are a carrier. Therehave been no other carriers. We'd like to know what makes you acarrier."

  #The laboratory again?# I thought.

  He nodded. "Also whether your final contraction of Mekstrom's Diseaseremoves the carrier-factor."

  I said hopefully, "I suppose as a Mekstrom I'll eventually be qualifiedto join you?"

  Thorndyke looked blank. "Perhaps," he said flatly.

  To my mind, that flat _perhaps_ was the same sort of reply that Motherused to hand me when I wanted something that she did not want to give.I'd been eleven before I got walloped across the bazoo by pointing outto her that _we'll see_ really meant _no_, because nothing that she saidit to ever came to pass.

  "Look, Thorndyke, let's take off our shoes and stop dancing," I toldhim. "I have a pretty good idea of what's been going on. I'd like anhonest answer to what's likely to go on from here."

  "I can't give you that."

  "Who can?"

  He said nothing, but he began to look at me as though I weren't quitebright. That made two of us, I was looking at him in the same manner.

  My finger itched a bit, saving the situation. I'd been about to forgetthat Thorndyke was a Mekstrom and take a swing at him.

  He laughed at me cynically. "You're in a very poor position to dictateterms," he said sharply.

  "All right," I agreed reluctantly. "So I'm a prisoner. I'm also under asentence of death. Don't think me unreasonable if I object to it."

  "The trouble with your thinking is that you expect all things to beblack or white and so defined. You ask me, 'am I going to live or die?'and expect me to answer without qualification. I can only tell you thatI don't know which. That it all depends."

  "Depends upon exactly what?"

  He eyed me with a cold stare. "Whether you're worthy of living."

  "Who's to decide?"

  "We will."

  I grunted, wishing that I knew more Latin. I wanted to quote that Latinplatitude about who watches the watchers. He watched me narrowly, and Iexpected him to quote me the phrase after having read my mind. Butapparently the implication of the phrase did not appeal to him, and sohe remained silent.

  I broke the silence by saying, "What right has any man or collection ofmen to decide whether I, or anyone else, has the right to live or die?"

  "It's done all the time," he replied succinctly.

  "Yeah?"

  "Criminals are--"

  "I'm not a criminal; I've violated no man-made law. I've not evenviolated very many of the Ten Commandments. At least, not the one thatis punishable by death."

  He was silent for a moment again, then he said, "Steve, you're thevictim of loose propaganda."

  "Who isn't?" I granted. "The entire human race is lambasted by one formof propaganda or another from the time the infant learns to sit up untilthe elderly lays down and dies. We're all guilty of loose thinking. Myown father, for instance, had to quit school before he could take anyadvanced schooling, had to fight his way up, had to collect his advancededucation by study, application, and hard practice. He always swore thatthis long period of hardship strengthened his will and his character andgave him the guts to go out and do things that he'd never have thoughtof if he'd had an easy life. Then the old duck turns right around andswears that he'll never see any son of his take the bumps as he tookthem."

  "That's beside the point, Steve. I know what sort of propaganda you'vebeen listening to. It's the old do-good line; the everything for anybodyline; the no man must die alone line."

  "Is it bad?"

  Dr. Thorndyke shrugged. "You've talked about loose propaganda," he said."Well, in this welter of loose propaganda, every man had at least theopportunity of choosing which line of guff he intends to adhere to. I'meven willing to admit that there is both right and wrong on both sides.Are you?"

  I stifled a sour grin. "I shouldn't, because it is a mistake in anypolitical argument to even let on that the other guy is slightly morethan an idiot. But as an engineer, I'll admit it."

  "Now that's a help," he said more cheerfully. "You're objecting, ofcourse, to the fact that we are taking the right to pick, choose, andselect those people that we think are more likely to be of goodadvantage to the human race. You've listened to that old line about thehypothetical cataclysm that threatens the human race, and how would youchoose the hundred people who are supposed to carry on. Well, have youever eyed the human race in slightly another manner?"

  "I wouldn't know," I told him. "Maybe."

  "Have you ever watched the proceedings of one of those big trials wheresome
conkpot has blown the brains out of a half-dozen citizens bypointing a gun and emptying it at a crowd? If you have, you've beenappalled by the sob sisters and do-gooders who show that the viciouscharacter was momentarily off his toggle. We mustn't execute a nut, nomatter how vicious he is. We've got to protect him, feed him, and househim for the next fifty years. Now, not only is he doing Societyabsolutely no damned good while he's locked up for fifty years, he'salso eating up his share of the standard of living. Then to top thisoff, so long as this nut is alive, there is the danger that somesoft-hearted fathead will succeed in getting him turned loose oncemore."

  "Agreed," I said. "But you're again talking about criminals, which Idon't think applies in my case."

  "No, of course not," he said quickly. "I used it to prove to you thatthis is one way of looking at a less concrete case. Carry this softheaded thinking a couple of steps higher. Medical science has made itpossible for the human race to dilute its strength. Epileptics are savedto breed epileptics; haemophiliacs are preserved, neurotics are ironedout, weaknesses of all kinds are kept alive to breed their strain ofweakness."

  "Just what has this to do with me and my future?" I asked.

  "Quite a lot. I'm trying to make you agree that there are quite a lot ofundeserving characters here on Earth."

  "Did I ever deny it?" I asked him pointedly, but he took it as notincluding present company.

  But I could see where Thorndyke was heading. First eliminate the lice onthe body politic. Okay, so I am blind and cannot see the sense ofincarcerating a murderer that has to be fed, clothed, and housed at myexpense for the rest of his natural life. Then for the second step weget rid of weaklings, both physical and mental. I'll call Step Twopassably okay, but--? Number Three includes grifters, beggars, bums, andguys out for the soft touch and here I begin to wonder. I've known someentertaining grifters, beggars, and bums; a few of them chose their wayof life for their own, just as I became a mechanical engineer.

  The trouble with this sort of philosophy is that it starts off with anappeal to justice and logic (I'm quoting myself), but it quickly getsdangerous. Start knocking off the bilge-scum. Then when the loweststrata of society is gone, start on the next. Carry this line ofreasoning out to straight Aristotelian Logic and you come up withparties like you and me, who may have been quite acceptable whencompared to the whole cross-section of humanity, but who now have no onebut his betters to compete with.

  I had never reasoned this out before, but as I did right there and then,I decided that Society cannot draw lines nor assume a static pose.Society must move constantly, either in one direction or the other. Andwhile I object to paying taxes to support some rattlehead for the restof his natural life, I'd rather have it that way than to have someonestart a trend of bopping off everybody who has not the ability to absorbthe educational level of the scholar. Because, if the trend turnedupward instead of downward, that's where the dividing line would end.

  Anarchy at one end, is as bad as tyranny at the other--

  "I'm sorry you cannot come to a reasonable conclusion," said Dr.Thorndyke. "If you cannot see the logic of--"

  I cut him off short. "Look, Doc," I snapped, "If you can't see whereyour line of thinking ends, you're in bad shape."

  He looked superior. "You're sour because you know you haven't got whatit takes."

  I almost nipped. "You're so damned dumb that you can't see that in anysociety of supermen, you'd not be qualified to clean out ash trays," Itossed back at him.

  He smiled self-confidently. "By the time they start looking at mylevel--if they ever do--you'll have been gone long ago. Sorry, Cornell.You don't add up."

  Well, that was nothing I didn't know already. In his society, I was anonentity. Yet, somehow, if that's what the human race was coming tounder the Thorndyke's and the Phelps', I didn't care to stay around.

  "All right," I snapped. "Which way do I go from here? The laboratory, orwill you dispense with the preliminaries and let me take the high slideright now before this--" I held up my infected finger, "gets to thepainful stages."

  With the air and tone of a man inspecting an interesting specimenimpaled on a mounting pin, Thorndyke replied:

  "Oh--we have use for the likes of you."