by Isaac Asimov
"Something that's making me a little sick. That guy must've been straight out of the hospital. That was a nurse looking for him, and a plenty worried nurse, too. Why should she be worried if he was just a little sick? He couldn't hardly talk, and he didn't hardly understand. You noticed that, didn't you?"
There was a sudden panicky light in Granz's eyes. "You don't think it's Fever?"
"I sure do think it's Radiation Fever-and he's far gone. He was within a foot of us, too. It's never any good-"
There was a little thin man next to them. A little thin man with bright, sharp eyes and a twittering voice, who had stepped out of nowhere. "What's that, gents? Who's got Radiation Fever?"
He was regarded with disfavor. "Who are you?"
"Ho," said the sharp little man, "you want to know, do you? It so happens that I'm a messenger of the Brotherhood, to be sure." He flashed a little glowing badge on the inner lapel of his jacket. "Now, in the name of the Society of Ancients, what's all this about Radiation Fever?"
Messter spoke in cowed and sullen tones. "I don't know nothing. There's a nurse looking for somebody who's sick, and I was wondering if it was Radiation Fever. That's not against the Customs, is it?"
"Ho! You're telling me about the Customs, are you? You better go about your business and let me worry about the Customs."
The little man rubbed his hands together, gazed quickly about him, and hurried northward.
"There he is!" and Pola clutched feverishly at her companion's elbow. It had happened quickly, easily, and accidentally. Through the despairing blankness he had suddenly materialized just within the main entrance of the self-service department store, not three blocks from the Foodomat.
"I see him," whispered Arvardan. "Now stay back and let me follow him. If he sees you and dashes into the mob, we'll never locate him."
Casually they followed in a sort of nightmare chase. The human contents of the store was a quicksand which could absorb its prey slowly-or quickly-keep it hidden impenetrably, spew it forth unexpectedly; set up barriers that somehow would not yield. The mob might almost have had a malevolent conscious mind of its own.
And then Arvardan circled a counter watchfully, playing Schwartz as though he were at the end of a fishing line. His huge hand reached out and closed on the other's shoulder.
Schwartz burst into incomprehensible prose and jerked away in panic. Arvardan's grip, however, was unbreakable to men far stronger than Schwartz, and he contented himself with smiling and saying, in normal tones, for the benefit of the curious spectator, "Hello, old chap, haven't seen you in months. How are you?"
A palpable fraud, he supposed, in the face of the other's gibberish, but Pola had joined them.
"Schwartz," she whispered, "come back with us."
For a moment Schwartz stiffened in rebellion, then he drooped.
He said wearily, "I-go-along-you," but the statement was drowned in the sudden blare of the store's loud-speaker system.
"Attention! Attention! Attention! The management requests that all patrons of the store leave by the Fifth Street exit in orderly fashion. You will present your registration cards to the guards at the door. It is essential that this be done rapidly. Attention! Attention! Attention!"
The message was repeated three times, the last time over the sound of scuffling feet as crowds were beginning to line up at the exits. A many-tongued cry was making itself heard, asking in various fashions the forever-unanswerable question of "What's happened? What's going on?"
Arvardan shrugged and said, "Let's get on line, miss. We're leaving anyway."
But Pola shook her head. "We can't. We can't-"
"Why not?" The archaeologist frowned.
The girl merely shrank away from him. How could she tell him that Schwartz had no registration card? Who was he? Why had he been helping her? She was in a whirl of suspicion and despair.
She said huskily, "You'd better go, or you'll get into trouble."
They were pouring out the elevators as the upper floors emptied. Arvardan, Pola, and Schwartz were a little island of solidity in the human river.
Looking back on it later, Arvardan realized that at this point he could have left the girl. Left her! Never seen her again! Have nothing to reproach himself with!…And all would have been different. The great Galactic Empire would have dissolved in chaos and destruction.
He did not leave the girl. She was scarcely pretty in her fear and despair. No one could be. But Arvardan felt disturbed at the sight of her helplessness.
He had taken a step away, and now he turned. "Are you going to stay here?"
She nodded.
"But why?" he demanded.
"Because"-and the tears now overflowed-"I don't know what else to do."
She was just a little, frightened girl, even if she was an Earthie. Arvardan said, in a softer voice, "If you'll tell me what's wrong, I'll try to help."
There was no answer.
The three formed a tableau. Schwartz had sunk to the floor in a squatting posture, too sick at heart to try to follow the conversation, to be curious at the sudden emptiness of the store, to do anything but bury his head in his hands in the last unspoken and unuttered whimper of despair. Pola, weeping, knew only that she was more frightened than she had ever thought it possible for anyone to be. Arvardan, puzzled and waiting, tried clumsily and ineffectually to pat Pola's shoulder in encouraging fashion, and was conscious only of the fact that for the first time he had touched an Earthgirl.
The little man came upon them thus.
9. Conflict At Chica
Lieutenant Marc Claudy of the Chica garrison yawned slowly and gazed into the middle distance with an ineffable boredom. He was completing his second year of duty on Earth and waited yearningly for replacement.
Nowhere in the Galaxy was the problem of maintaining a garrison quite so complicated as it was on this horrible world. On other planets there existed a certain camaraderie between soldier and civilian, particularly female civilian. There was a sense of freedom and openness.
But here the garrison was a prison. There were the radiation-proof barracks and the filtered atmosphere, free of radioactive dust. There was the lead-impregnated clothing, cold and heavy, which could not be removed without grave risk. As a corollary to that, fraternization with the population (assuming that the desperation of loneliness could drive a soldier to the society of an "Earthie" girl) was out of the question.
What was left, then, but short snorts, long naps, and slow madness?
Lieutenant Claudy shook his head in a futile attempt to clear it, yawned again, sat up and began dragging on his shoes. He looked at his watch and decided it was not yet quite time for evening chow.
And then he jumped to his feet, only one shoe on, acutely conscious of his uncombed hair, and saluted.
The colonel looked about him disparagingly but said nothing directly on the subject. Instead he directed crisply, "Lieutenant, there are reports of rioting in the business district. You will take a decontamination squad to the Dunham department store and take charge. You will see to it that all your men are thoroughly protected against infection by Radiation Fever."
"Radiation Fever!" cried the lieutenant. "Pardon me, sir, but-"
"You will be ready to leave in fifteen minutes," said the colonel coldly.
Arvardan saw the little man first, and stiffened as the other made a little gesture of greeting. "Hi, guv'ner. Hi, big fella. Tell the little lady there ain't no call for the waterworks. "
Pola's head had snapped up, her breath sucked in. Automatically she leaned toward the protecting bulk of Arvardan, who, as automatically, put a protective arm about her. It did not occur to him that that was the second time he had touched an Earthgirl.
He said sharply, "What do you want?"
The little man with the sharp eyes stepped diffidently out from behind a counter piled high with packages. He spoke in a manner which managed to be both ingratiating and impudent simultaneously.
"Here's a weird go
outside," he said, "but it don't need to bother you, miss. I'll get your man back to the Institute for you."
"What institute?" demanded Pola fearfully.
"Aw, come off it," said the little man. "I'm Natter, fella with the fruit stand right across the street from the Institute for Nuclear Research. I seen you here lots of times."
"See here," said Arvardan abruptly, "what's all this about?"
Natter's little frame shook with merriment. "They think this fella here has Radiation Fever-"
"Radiation Fever?" It came from both Arvardan and Pola at once.
Natter nodded. "That's right. Two cabbies ate with him and that's what they said. News like that kinda spreads, you know."
"The guards outside," demanded Pola, "are just looking for someone with fever?"
"That's right."
"And just why aren't you afraid of the fever?" demanded Arvardan abruptly. "I take it that it was fear of contagion that caused the authorities to empty the store."
"Sure. The authorities are waiting outside, afraid to come in, too. They're waiting for the Outsiders' decontamination squad to get here."
"And you're not afraid of the fever, is that it?"
"Why should I be? This guy don't have no fever. Look at him. Where's the sores on his mouth? He isn't flushed. His eyes are all right. I know what fever looks like. Come on, miss, we'll march out of here, then."
But Pola was frightened again. "No, no. We can't. He's-he's-" She couldn't go on.
Natter said insinuatingly, "I could take him out. No questions asked. No registration card necessary-"
Pola failed to suppress a little cry, and Arvardan said, with considerable distaste, "What makes you so important?"
Natter laughed hoarsely. He flipped his lapel. "Messenger for the Society of Ancients. Nobody'll ask me questions."
"And what's in it for you?"
"Money! You're anxious and I can help you. There ain't no fairer than that. It's worth, say, a hundred credits to you, and it's worth a hundred credits to me. Fifty credits now, fifty on delivery."
But Pola whispered in horror, "You'll take him to the Ancients."
"What for? He's no good to them, and he's worth a hundred credits to me. If you wait for the Outsiders, they're liable to kill the fella before they find out he's fever-free. You know Outsiders-they don't care if they kill an Earthman or not. They'd rather, in fact."
Arvardan said, "Take the young lady with you."
But Natter's little eyes were very sharp and very sly. "Oh no. Not that guv'ner. I take what you call calculated risks. I can get by with one, maybe not with two. And if I only take one, I take the one what's worth more. Ain't that reasonable to you?"
"What," said Arvardan, "if I pick you up and pull your legs off? What'll happen then?"
Natter flinched, but found his voice, nevertheless, and managed a laugh. "Why, then, you're a dope. They'll get you anyway, and there'll be murder, too, on the list…All right, guv'ner. Keep your hands off."
"Please"-Pola was dragging at Arvardan's arm-"we must take a chance. Let him do as he says…You'll be honest with us, w-won't you, Mr. Natter?"
Natter's lips were curling. "Your big friend wrenched my arm. He had no call to do that, and I don't like nobody to push me around. I'll just take an extra hundred credits for that. Two hundred in all."
"My father'll pay you-"
"One hundred in advance," he replied obdurately.
"But I don't have a hundred credits," Pola wailed.
"That's all right, miss," said Arvardan stonily. "I can swing it."
He opened his wallet and plucked out several bills. He threw them at Natter. "Get going!"
"Go with him, Schwartz," whispered Pola.
Schwartz did, without comment, without caring. He would have gone to hell at that moment with as little emotion.
And they were alone, staring at each other blankly. It was perhaps the first time that Pola had actually looked at Arvardan, and she was amazed to find him tall and craggily handsome, calm and self -confident. She had accepted him till now as an inchoate, unmotivated helper, but now-She grew suddenly shy, and all the events of the last hour or two were enmeshed and lost in a scurry of heartbeating.
They didn't even know each other's name.
She smiled and said, "I'm Pola Shekt."
Arvardan had not seen her smile before, and found himself interested in the phenomenon. It was a glow that entered her face, a radiance. It made him feel-But he put that thought away roughly. An Earthgirl!
So he said, with perhaps less cordiality than he intended, "My name is Bel Arvardan." He held out a bronzed hand, into which her little one was swallowed up for a moment.
She said, "I must thank you for all your help."
Arvardan shrugged it away. "Shall we leave? I mean, now that your friend is gone; safely, I trust."
"I think we would have heard quite a noise if they had caught him, don't you think so?" Her eyes were pleading for confirmation of her hope, and he refused the temptation toward softness.
"Shall we go?"
She was somehow frozen. "Yes, why not?" sharply.
But there was a whining in the air, a shrill moan on the horizon, and the girl's eyes were wide and her outstretched hand suddenly withdrawn again,
"What's the matter now?" asked Arvardan.
"It's the Imperials."
"And are you frightened of them too?" It was the self-consciously non-Earthman Arvardan who spoke-the Sirian archaeologist. Prejudice or not, however the logic might be chopped and minced, the approach of Imperial soldiers meant a trace of sanity and humanity. There was room for condescension here, and he grew kind.
"Don't worry about the Outsiders," he said, even stooping to use their term for non-Earthmen. "I'll handle them, Miss Shekt."
She was suddenly concerned. "Oh no, don't try anything like that. Just don't talk to them at all. Do as they say, and don't even look at them."
Arvardan's smile broadened.
The guards saw them while they were still a distance from the main entrance and fell back. They emerged into a little space of emptiness and a strange hush. The whine of the army cars was almost upon them.
And then there were armored cars in the square and groups of glass-globe-headed soldiers springing out therefrom. The crowds scattered before them in panic, aided in their scramblings by clipped shouts and thrusts with the butt ends of the neuronic whips.
Lieutenant Claudy, in the lead, approached an Earthman guard at the main entrance. " All right, you, who's got the fever?"
His face was slightly distorted within the enclosing glass, with its content of pure air. His voice was slightly metallic as a result of radio amplification.
The guard bent his head in deep respect. "If it please your honor, we have isolated the patient within the store. The two who were with the patient are now standing in the doorway before you."
"They are, are they? Good! Let them stand there. Now in the first place, I want this mob out of here. Sergeant! Clear the square!"
There was a grim efficiency in the proceedings thereafter. The deepening twilight gloomed over Chica as the crowd melted into the darkening air. The streets were beginning to gleam in soft, artificial lighting.
Lieutenant Claudy tapped his heavy boots with the butt of his neuronic whip. "You're sure the sick Earthie is inside?"
"He has not left, your honor. He must be."
"Well, we'll assume he is and waste no time about it. Sergeant! Decontaminate the building!"
A contingent of soldiers, hermetically sealed away from all contact with Terrestrial environment, charged into the building. A slow quarter hour passed, while Arvardan watched all in absorbed fashion. It was a field experiment in intercultural relationships that he was professionally reluctant to disturb.
The last of the soldiers were out again, and the store was shrouded in deepening night.
"Seal the doors!"
Another few minutes and then the cans of disinfectant which had
been placed in several spots on each floor were discharged at long distance. In the recesses of the building those cans were flung open and the thick vapors rolled out and curled up the walls, clinging to every square inch of surface, reaching through the air and into the inmost crannies. No protoplasm, from germ to man, could remain alive in its presence, and chemical flushing of the most painstaking type would be required eventually for decontamination.
But now the lieutenant was approaching Arvardan and Pola.
"What was his name?" There was not even cruelty in his voice, merely utter indifference. An Earthman, he thought, had been killed. Well, he had killed a fly that day also. That made two.
He received no answer, Pola bending her head meekly and Arvardan watching curiously. The Imperial officer did not take his eyes off them. He beckoned curtly. "Check them for infection."
An officer bearing the insignia of the Imperial Medical Corps approached them, and was not gentle in his investigation; His gloved hands pushed hard under their armpits and yanked at the corners of their mouths so that he might investigate the inner surfaces of their cheeks.
"No infection, Lieutenant. If they had been exposed this afternoon, the stigmata would be clearly visible by now if infection had occurred."
"Umm." Lieutenant Claudy carefully removed his globe and enjoyed the touch of "live" air, even that of Earth. He tucked the ungainly glass object into the crook of his left elbow and said harshly, "Your name, Earthie-squaw?"
The term itself was richly insulting; the tone in which it was uttered added disgrace to it, but Pola showed no sign of resentment.
"Pola Shekt, sir," she responded in a whisper.
"Your papers!"
She reached into the small pocket of her white jacket and removed the pink folder.
He took it, flared it open in the light of his pocket flash, and studied it. Then he tossed it back. It fell, fluttering, to the floor, and Pola bent quickly for it.
"Stand up," the officer ordered impatiently, and kicked the booklet out of reach. Pola, white-faced, snatched her fingers away.
Arvardan frowned and decided it was time to interfere. He said, "Say, look here, now."