by Robert Reed
of their blasphemies was a sting in the hearts of these holy people .
They stopped in the center of the nave and groaned with pain, their
hearts boiling with hatred and vengeance . They lifted their eyes and
hands to God, and prayed that His vengeance might fall because of
the mock done to Him here in His own house . They would gladly go
to destruction together with these fool-hardy, if only He would show
His might . Joyously they would let themselves be crushed beneath
His heel, if only He would triumph, that cries of terror, despair, and
repentance, that were too late, might rise up toward Him from these
impious lips .
And they struck up a miserere . Every note of it sounded like a cry
for the rain of fire that overwhelmed Sodom, for the strength which
Samson possessed when he pulled down the columns in the house
of the Philistines . They prayed with song and with words; they
denuded their shoulders and prayed with their scourges . They lay
kneeling row after row, stripped to their waist, and swung the sharp-
pointed and knotted cords down on their bleeding backs . Wildly and
madly they beat themselves so that the blood clung in drops on their
hissing whips. Every blow was a sacrifice to God. Would that they
might beat themselves in still another way, would that they might
tear themselves into a thousand bloody shreds here before His eyes!
This body with which they had sinned against His commandments
had to be punished, tortured, annihilated, that He might see how
hateful it was to them, that He might see how they became like unto
dogs in order to please Him, lower than dogs before His will, the
lowliest of vermin that ate the dust beneath the soles of His feet!
Blow upon blow—until their arms dropped or until cramps turned
them to knots . There they lay row on row with eyes gleaming with
madness, with foam round their mouths, the blood trickling down
their flesh.
THE PLAGUE IN BERGAMO, by Jens Peter Jacobsen | 799
And those who watched this suddenly felt their hearts throb,
noticed how hotness rose into their cheeks and how their breath-
ing grew difficult. It seemed as if something cold was growing out
beneath their scalps, and their knees grew weak . It seized hold of
them; in their brains was a little spot of madness which understood
this frenzy .
To feel themselves the slaves of a harsh and powerful deity, to
thrust themselves down before His feet; to be His, not in gentle
piety, not in the inactivity of silent prayer, but madly, in a frenzy
of self-humiliation, in blood, and wailing, beneath wet gleaming
scourges—this they were capable of understanding . Even the butch-
er became silent, and the toothless philosophers lowered their gray
heads before the eyes that roved about .
And it became quite still within the church; only a slight wave-
like motion swept through the mob .
Then one from among the strangers, a young monk, rose up and
spoke . He was pale as a sheet of linen, his black eyes glowed like
coals, which are just going to die out, and the gloomy, pain-hardened
lines around his mouth were as if carven in wood with a knife, and
not like the folds in the face of a human being .
He raised his thin, sickly hands toward heaven in prayer, and the
sleeves of his robe slipped down over his lean, white arms .
Then he spoke .
Of hell he spoke, that it is infinite as heaven is infinite, of the
lonely world of torments which each one of the condemned must
endure and fill with his wails. Seas of sulphur were there, fields of
scorpions, flames that wrap themselves round a person like a cloak,
and silent flames that have hardened and plunged into the body like
a spear twisted round in a wound .
It was quite still; breathlessly they listened to his words, for he
spoke as if he had seen it with his own eyes, and they asked them-
selves: is he one of the condemned, sent up to us from the caverns of
hell to bear witness before us?
Then he preached for a long time concerning the law and the
power of the law, that its every title must be fulfilled, and that every
THE PLAGUE IN BERGAMO, by Jens Peter Jacobsen | 800
transgression of which they were guilty would be counted against
them by grain and ounce . “But Christ died for our sins, say ye, and
we are no longer subject to the law . But I say unto you, hell will not
be cheated of a single one of you, and not a single iron tooth of the
torture wheel of hell shall pass beside your flesh. You build upon the
cross of Golgotha, come, come! Come and look at it! I shall lead you
straight to its foot . It was on a Friday, as you know, that they thrust
Him out of one of their gates and laid the heavier end of a cross upon
His shoulders . They made Him bear it to a barren and unfruitful hill
without the city, and in crowds they followed Him, whirling up the
dust with their many feet so that it seemed a red cloud was over the
place . And they tore the garments from Him and bared His body, as
the lords of the law have a malefactor exposed before the eyes of
all, so that all may see the flesh that is to be committed to torture.
And they flung Him on the cross and stretched Him out and they
drove a nail of iron through each of His resistant hands and a nail
through His crossed feet . With clubs they struck the nails till they
were in to the heads . And they raised upright the cross in a hole in
the ground, but it would not stand firm and straight, and they moved
it from one side to the other, and drove wedges and posts all around,
and those who did this pulled down the brims of their hats so that
the blood from His hands might not drop into their eyes . And He
on the cross looked down on the soldiers, who were casting lots
for His unstitched garment and down on the whole turbulent mob,
for whose sake He suffered, that they might be saved; and in all the
multitude there was not one pitiful eye .
“And those below looked up toward Him, who hung there suf-
fering and weak; they looked at the tablet above His head, whereon
was written ‘King of the Jews,’ and they reviled Him and called out
to Him: ‘Thou that destroyest the temple, and buildest it in three
days, save thyself . If thou be the Son of God, come down from the
cross .’ Then He, the only begotten Son of God was taken with anger,
and saw that they were not worthy of salvation, these mobs that fill
the earth . He tore free His feet over the heads of the nails, and He
clenched His hands round the nails and tore them out, so that the
THE PLAGUE IN BERGAMO, by Jens Peter Jacobsen | 801
arms of the cross bent like a bow . Then He leaped down upon the
earth and snatched up His garment so that the dice rolled down the
slope of Golgotha, and flung it round himself with the wrath of a
king and ascended into heaven . And the cross stood empty, and the
great work of redemption was never fulfilled. There is no mediator
between God and us; there is no Jesus who died for us on the cross;
there is no Jesus who
died for us on the cross, there is no Jesus who
died for us on the cross!”
He was silent .
As he uttered the last words he leaned forward over the multitude
and with his lips and hands hurled the last words over their heads .
A groan of agony went through the church, and in the corners they
had begun to sob .
Then the butcher pushed forward with raised, threatening hands,
pale as a corpse, and shouted: “Monk, monk, you must nail Him on
the cross again, you must!” and behind him there was a hoarse, hiss-
ing sound: “Yea, yea, crucify, crucify Him!” And from all mouths,
threatening, beseeching, peremptory, rose a storm of cries up to the
vaulted roof: “Crucify, crucify Him!”
And clear and serene a single quivering voice: “Crucify Him!”
But the monk looked down over this wave of outstretched hands,
upon these distorted faces with the dark openings of screaming lips,
where rows of teeth gleamed white like the teeth of enraged beasts
of prey, and in a moment of ecstasy he spread out his arms toward
heaven and laughed . Then he stepped down, and his people raised
their banners with the rain of fire and their empty black crosses, and
crowded their way out of the church and again passed singing across
the square and again through the opening of the tower-gate .
And those of Old Bergamo stared after them, as they went down
the mountain . The steep road, lined by walls, was misty in the light
of the sun setting beyond the plain, but on the red wall encircling the
city the shadows of the great crosses which swayed from side to side
in the crowd stood out black and sharply outlined .
THE PLAGUE IN BERGAMO, by Jens Peter Jacobsen | 802
Further away sounded the singing; one or another of the banners
still gleamed red out of the new town’s smoke-blackened void; then
they disappeared in the sun-lit plain .
THE PLAGUE IN BERGAMO, by Jens Peter Jacobsen | 803
THE PLAGUE, by Teddy Keller
Originally published in Analog Science
Fact & Fiction, February 1961.
Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling tele-
phones and the excited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a ciga-
rette . Somebody had to keep his head in this mess . Everybody was
about to flip.
Like the telephone . Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had
been answering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, hus-
ky voice that gave even generals pause—by saying, “Good morning .
Office of the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Coordina-
tor .” Now there was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines
running to a dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer
office. And now the harried girls answered with a hasty, “Germ War
Protection .”
All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this
office deep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could
quite comprehend what had happened . The situation might have
been funny, or at least pathetic, if it hadn’t been so desperate . Even
so, Andy McCloud’s nerves and patience had frayed thin .
“I told you, general,” he snapped to the flustered brigadier,
“Colonel Patterson was retired ten days ago . I don’t know what hap-
pened . Maybe this replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape .
Anyhow, the brand-new lieutenant hasn’t showed up here . As far as
I know, I’m in charge .”
“But this is incredible,” a two-star general wailed . “A mysterious
epidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attack
THE PLAGUE, by Teddy Keller | 804
timed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on top
of the whole powder keg .”
Andy’s big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a moment
before he could speak safely . Doggone the freckles and the unruly
mop of hair that give him such a boyish look . “May I remind you,
general,” he said, “that I’ve been entombed here for two years . My
staff and I know what to do . If you’ll give us some cooperation and
a priority, we’ll try to figure this thing out.”
“But good heavens,” a chicken colonel moaned, “this is all so
irregular . A noncom!” He said it like a dirty word .
“Irregular, hell,” the brigadier snorted, the message getting
through . “There’re ways . Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here
and let the sergeant get to work .” He took a step toward the door,
and the other officers, protesting and complaining, moved along af-
ter him . As they drifted out, he turned and said, “We’ll clear your
office for top priority.” Then dead serious, he added, “Son, a whole
nation could panic at any moment . You’ve got to come through .”
Andy didn’t waste time standing . He merely nodded to the gen-
eral, snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom . “Bettijean,
will you bring me all the latest reports, please?” Then he peeled
out of his be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves . He allowed
himself one moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed
corporal who entered his office.
* * * *
Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk . She gave him a motherly
smile as she put down a thick sheaf of papers . “You look beat,” she
said . “Brass give you much trouble?”
“Not much. We’re top priority now.” He ran fingers through the
thick, brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimula-
tion to his wary and confused brain . “What’s new?”
“I’ve gone though some of these,” she said . “Tried to save you a
little time .”
“Thanks . Sit down .”
THE PLAGUE, by Teddy Keller | 805
She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers . “So far, no
fatalities . That’s why there’s no panic yet, I guess . But it’s spreading
like…well, like a plague.” Fear flickered deep in her dark eyes.
“Any water reports?” Andy asked .
“Wichita O .K ., Indianapolis O .K ., Tulsa O .K ., Buffalo O .K .,—
and a bunch more. No indication there. Except”—she fished out a
one-page report—“some little town in Tennessee . Yesterday there
was a campaign for everybody to write their congressman about
some deal and today they were to vote on a new water system .
Hardly anybody showed up at the polls . They’ve all got it .”
Andy shrugged . “You can drink water, but don’t vote for it . Oh,
that’s a big help .” He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and
came up with a crude chart . “Any trends yet?”
“It’s hitting everybody,” Bettijean said helplessly . “Not many
kids so far, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office
workers, teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska .
Just when you called me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend .
The isolated mountain areas of the West and South . But reports are
too fragmentary .”
“What is it?” he cried suddenly, banging the desk . “People death-
ly ill, but nobod
y dying . And doctors can’t identify the poison until
they have a fatality for an autopsy . People stricken in every part of
the country, but the water systems are pure . How does it spread?”
“In food?”
“How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and
packing plants over the country . How could they all goof at the same
time—even if it was sabotage?”
“On the wind?”
“But who could accurately predict every wind over the entire
country—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or
Mexico? And why wouldn’t everybody get it in a given area?”
Bettijean’s smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the
desk to grip his icy, sweating hands . “Andy, do…do you think it’s…
well, an enemy?”
“I don’t know,” he said . “I just don’t know .”
THE PLAGUE, by Teddy Keller | 806
For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from
her, punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea . Finally, shaking
his head, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf of
papers .
“We’ve got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something.”
He nodded toward the outer office. “Stop all in-coming calls. Get
those girls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country .
Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas . Then line up
another relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee and
sandwiches . And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, and
occupation of the victims . You and I’ll start with Washington .”
Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and
strode from the room . Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the
girls on the phones . Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his
phone and directory .
He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke
to worried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hysterical
nurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legible
scrawl as writer’s cramp knotted his hand and arm . His voice burned
down to a rasping whisper . But columns climbed up his rough chart
and broken lines pointed vaguely to trends .
* * * *
It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office with
another stack of papers . Andy hung up his phone and reached for a