The Plague, Pestilence & Apocalypse MEGAPACK™

by Robert Reed

  clawed through the pile until he found what he wanted . Handing it

  to the lab technician, he said, “Get me a report . Fast .”

  The technician darted out .

  Andy wheeled to Bettijean . “Get the brass in here . And call the

  general first.” To the doctor, he said, “Give that girl the best of ev-

  erything .”

  Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports.

  He was still poring over them when the general arrived . Half a dozen

  other brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind .

  The lab technician arrived a minute later . He shook his head as he

  handed his hastily scribbled report to Andy .

  * * * *

  It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittle

  silence . “Andy, for heaven’s sake, what is it?” Then she moved

  around the desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers.

  THE PLAGUE, by Teddy Keller | 815

  “Have you got something?” the brigadier asked . “Some girl

  outside was babbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and

  college students, and little secretaries and big secretaries . Have you

  established a trend?”

  Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as

  it was weary. “Our problem,” he said, “was in figuring out what

  a writer does that a doctor doesn’t—why girls from small offices

  were sick—and why senators and postal workers weren’t—why col-

  lege students caught the bug and people in a Tennessee community

  didn’t .

  “The lab report isn’t complete . They haven’t had time to isolate

  the poison and prescribe medication . But”—he held up a four-cent

  stamp—“here’s the villain, gentlemen .”

  The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open

  and eyes bugged at Andy, at the stamp .

  Bettijean said, “Sure . College kids and engaged girls and new

  parents and especially writers and artists and poets—they’d all lick

  lots of stamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices have

  postage-meter machines. And government offices have free frank-

  ing . And”—she threw her arms around the sergeant’s neck—“Andy,

  you’re wonderful .”

  “The old American ingenuity,” the colonel said, reaching for

  Andy’s phone . “I knew we could lick it . Now all we have to do—”

  “At ease, colonel,” the brigadier said sharply . He waited until the

  colonel had retreated, then addressed Andy . “It’s your show . What

  do you suggest?”

  “Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV

  networks . Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against

  licking any stamps . Then—”

  He broke off as his phone rang . Answering, he listened for a mo-

  ment, then hung up and said, “But before the big announcement, get

  somebody checking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is

  where they print stamps . This’s a big deal . Somebody may’ve been

  planted years ago for this operation . It shouldn’t be too hard .

  THE PLAGUE, by Teddy Keller | 816

  “But there’s no evidence it was a plot yet . Could be pure ac-

  cident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled . Do they keep the

  stickum in barrels? Find out who had access . And…oh, the phone

  call . That was the lab . The antidote’s simple and the cure should

  be quick . They can phone or broadcast the medical information to

  doctors . The man on the phone said they could start emptying hos-

  pitals in six hours . And maybe we should release some propaganda .

  “United States whips mystery virus,” or something like that . And we

  could send the Kremlin a stamp collection and .… Aw, you take it,

  sir . I’m pooped .”

  * * * *

  The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured

  into the corridor . Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crin-

  kling his granite brow .

  “But you said that postal workers weren’t getting sick .”

  Andy chucked. “That’s right. Did you ever see a post office clerk

  lick a stamp? They always use a sponge .”

  The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp . He grinned

  and the grin became a rumbling laugh . “How would you two like a

  thirty-day furlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted?”

  Bettijean squealed . Andy reached for her hand .

  “And while you’re gone,” the general continued, “I’ll see what

  strings I can pull. If I can’t wangle you a couple of battlefield com-

  missions, I’ll zip you both through O .C .S . so fast you won’t even

  have time to pin on the bars .”

  But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the men-

  tion of furlough . Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into

  the depths of each other’s eyes .

  And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone

  four-cent stamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and

  marched the stamp out of the office under guard.

  THE PLAGUE, by Teddy Keller | 817

  THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley

  Originally published in 1826.

  VOL. I.

  INTRODUCTION.

  I visited Naples in the year 1818 . On the 8th of December of

  that year, my companion and I crossed the Bay, to visit the antiqui-

  ties which are scattered on the shores of Baiae . The translucent and

  shining waters of the calm sea covered fragments of old Roman vil-

  las, which were interlaced by seaweed, and received diamond tints

  from the chequering of the sun-beams; the blue and pellucid element

  was such as Galatea might have skimmed in her car of mother of

  pearl; or Cleopatra, more fitly than the Nile, have chosen as the path

  of her magic ship . Though it was winter, the atmosphere seemed

  more appropriate to early spring; and its genial warmth contributed

  to inspire those sensations of placid delight, which are the portion

  of every traveller, as he lingers, loath to quit the tranquil bays and

  radiant promontories of Baiae .

  We visited the so called Elysian Fields and Avernus: and wan-

  dered through various ruined temples, baths, and classic spots; at

  length we entered the gloomy cavern of the Cumaean Sibyl . Our

  Lazzeroni bore flaring torches, which shone red, and almost dusky,

  in the murky subterranean passages, whose darkness thirstily sur-

  rounding them, seemed eager to imbibe more and more of the ele-

  ment of light . We passed by a natural archway, leading to a second

  gallery, and enquired, if we could not enter there also . The guides

  THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 818

  pointed to the reflection of their torches on the water that paved it,

  leaving us to form our own conclusion; but adding it was a pity, for

  it led to the Sibyl’s Cave . Our curiosity and enthusiasm were excited

  by this circumstance, and we insisted upon attempting the passage .

  As is usually the case in the prosecution of such enterprizes, the

  difficulties decreased on examination. We found, on each side of the

  humid pathway, “dry land for the sole of the foot .”

 
At length we arrived at a large, desert, dark cavern, which the

  Lazzeroni assured us was the Sibyl’s Cave. We were sufficiently

  disappointed—Yet we examined it with care, as if its blank, rocky

  walls could still bear trace of celestial visitant . On one side was

  a small opening . Whither does this lead? we asked: can we enter

  here?—“Questo poi, no,”—said the wild looking savage, who held

  the torch; “you can advance but a short distance, and nobody visits

  it .”“Nevertheless, I will try it,” said my companion; “it may lead to

  the real cavern . Shall I go alone, or will you accompany me?”

  I signified my readiness to proceed, but our guides protested

  against such a measure . With great volubility, in their native Nea-

  politan dialect, with which we were not very familiar, they told us

  that there were spectres, that the roof would fall in, that it was too

  narrow to admit us, that there was a deep hole within, filled with

  water, and we might be drowned . My friend shortened the harangue,

  by taking the man’s torch from him; and we proceeded alone .

  The passage, which at first scarcely admitted us, quickly grew

  narrower and lower; we were almost bent double; yet still we per-

  sisted in making our way through it . At length we entered a wider

  space, and the low roof heightened; but, as we congratulated our-

  selves on this change, our torch was extinguished by a current of air,

  and we were left in utter darkness . The guides bring with them mate-

  rials for renewing the light, but we had none—our only resource was

  to return as we came. We groped round the widened space to find

  the entrance, and after a time fancied that we had succeeded . This

  proved however to be a second passage, which evidently ascended .

  It terminated like the former; though something approaching to a

  THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 819

  ray, we could not tell whence, shed a very doubtful twilight in the

  space . By degrees, our eyes grew somewhat accustomed to this dim-

  ness, and we perceived that there was no direct passage leading us

  further; but that it was possible to climb one side of the cavern to a

  low arch at top, which promised a more easy path, from whence we

  now discovered that this light proceeded. With considerable diffi-

  culty we scrambled up, and came to another passage with still more

  of illumination, and this led to another ascent like the former .

  After a succession of these, which our resolution alone permitted

  us to surmount, we arrived at a wide cavern with an arched dome-

  like roof . An aperture in the midst let in the light of heaven; but

  this was overgrown with brambles and underwood, which acted as

  a veil, obscuring the day, and giving a solemn religious hue to the

  apartment . It was spacious, and nearly circular, with a raised seat of

  stone, about the size of a Grecian couch, at one end . The only sign

  that life had been here, was the perfect snow-white skeleton of a

  goat, which had probably not perceived the opening as it grazed on

  the hill above, and had fallen headlong . Ages perhaps had elapsed

  since this catastrophe; and the ruin it had made above, had been re-

  paired by the growth of vegetation during many hundred summers .

  The rest of the furniture of the cavern consisted of piles of leaves,

  fragments of bark, and a white filmy substance, resembling the inner

  part of the green hood which shelters the grain of the unripe Indian

  corn . We were fatigued by our struggles to attain this point, and

  seated ourselves on the rocky couch, while the sounds of tinkling

  sheep-bells, and shout of shepherd-boy, reached us from above .

  At length my friend, who had taken up some of the leaves

  strewed about, exclaimed, “This is the Sibyl’s cave; these are Sibyl-

  line leaves .” On examination, we found that all the leaves, bark,

  and other substances, were traced with written characters . What

  appeared to us more astonishing, was that these writings were ex-

  pressed in various languages: some unknown to my companion,

  ancient Chaldee, and Egyptian hieroglyphics, old as the Pyramids .

  Stranger still, some were in modern dialects, English and Italian . We

  could make out little by the dim light, but they seemed to contain

  THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 820

  prophecies, detailed relations of events but lately passed; names,

  now well known, but of modern date; and often exclamations of

  exultation or woe, of victory or defeat, were traced on their thin

  scant pages . This was certainly the Sibyl’s Cave; not indeed exactly

  as Virgil describes it, but the whole of this land had been so con-

  vulsed by earthquake and volcano, that the change was not wonder-

  ful, though the traces of ruin were effaced by time; and we probably

  owed the preservation of these leaves, to the accident which had

  closed the mouth of the cavern, and the swift-growing vegetation

  which had rendered its sole opening impervious to the storm . We

  made a hasty selection of such of the leaves, whose writing one at

  least of us could understand; and then, laden with our treasure, we

  bade adieu to the dim hypaethric cavern, and after much difficulty

  succeeded in rejoining our guides .

  During our stay at Naples, we often returned to this cave, some-

  times alone, skimming the sun-lit sea, and each time added to our

  store . Since that period, whenever the world’s circumstance has not

  imperiously called me away, or the temper of my mind impeded

  such study, I have been employed in deciphering these sacred re-

  mains . Their meaning, wondrous and eloquent, has often repaid my

  toil, soothing me in sorrow, and exciting my imagination to dar-

  ing flights, through the immensity of nature and the mind of man.

  For awhile my labours were not solitary; but that time is gone; and,

  with the selected and matchless companion of my toils, their dearest

  reward is also lost to me—

  Di mie tenere frondi altro lavoro

  Credea mostrarte; e qual fero pianeta

  Ne’ nvidio insieme, o mio nobil tesoro?

  I present the public with my latest discoveries in the slight Sibyl-

  line pages . Scattered and unconnected as they were, I have been

  obliged to add links, and model the work into a consistent form .

  But the main substance rests on the truths contained in these poetic

  THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 821

  rhapsodies, and the divine intuition which the Cumaean damsel ob-

  tained from heaven .

  I have often wondered at the subject of her verses, and at the

  English dress of the Latin poet . Sometimes I have thought, that,

  obscure and chaotic as they are, they owe their present form to me,

  their decipherer . As if we should give to another artist, the painted

  fragments which form the mosaic copy of Raphael’s Transfiguration

  in St . Peter’s; he would put them together in a form, whose mode

  would be fashioned by his own peculiar mind and talent . Doubt-

  less the leaves of the Cumaean Sibyl have suffered distortion and

  diminution of interest and excellence in my hands . My only excuse

  for thus
transforming them, is that they were unintelligible in their

  pristine condition .

  My labours have cheered long hours of solitude, and taken me out

  of a world, which has averted its once benignant face from me, to

  one glowing with imagination and power . Will my readers ask how

  I could find solace from the narration of misery and woeful change?

  This is one of the mysteries of our nature, which holds full sway

  over me, and from whose influence I cannot escape. I confess, that

  I have not been unmoved by the development of the tale; and that

  I have been depressed, nay, agonized, at some parts of the recital,

  which I have faithfully transcribed from my materials . Yet such is

  human nature, that the excitement of mind was dear to me, and that

  the imagination, painter of tempest and earthquake, or, worse, the

  stormy and ruin-fraught passions of man, softened my real sorrows

  and endless regrets, by clothing these fictitious ones in that ideality,

  which takes the mortal sting from pain .

  I hardly know whether this apology is necessary . For the merits

  of my adaptation and translation must decide how far I have well be-

  stowed my time and imperfect powers, in giving form and substance

  to the frail and attenuated Leaves of the Sibyl .

  THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 822

  CHAPTER I.

  I am the native of a sea-surrounded nook, a cloud-enshadowed

  land, which, when the surface of the globe, with its shoreless ocean

  and trackless continents, presents itself to my mind, appears only

  as an inconsiderable speck in the immense whole; and yet, when

  balanced in the scale of mental power, far outweighed countries of

  larger extent and more numerous population . So true it is, that man’s

  mind alone was the creator of all that was good or great to man, and

  that Nature herself was only his first minister. England, seated far

  north in the turbid sea, now visits my dreams in the semblance of

  a vast and well-manned ship, which mastered the winds and rode

  proudly over the waves . In my boyish days she was the universe to

  me . When I stood on my native hills, and saw plain and mountain

  stretch out to the utmost limits of my vision, speckled by the dwell-

  ings of my countrymen, and subdued to fertility by their labours, the

  earth’s very centre was fixed for me in that spot, and the rest of her