A picture or two, someone said. He stood by Julia, holding her hand, and the flashbulbs exploded. Someone opened a new bottle of champagne close by, and that exploded. Someone else began shrieking with laughter. He moved away from the center of the party again and sat down at a small table, waiting for Boyle to join him.
“This is as safe as any place we’re likely to find,” Boyle said. He was drinking beer, carrying a quart bottle with him. “What have you dug out?”
The waterfall splashed noisily behind them, and the party played noisily before them. Martie watched the party. He said, “The death rate, extrapolated only, you understand. Nothing’s available on paper anywhere. But the figures we’ve come up with are: from one million eight hundred thousand five years ago, up to fourteen and a quarter million this year.”
Boyle choked and covered his face with his handkerchief. He poured more beer and took a long swallow.
Martie waited until he finished, then said, “Birth rate down from three and a half million to one million two hundred thousand. That’s live births. At these rates, with the figures we could find, we come up with a loss per thousand of sixty-three. A death rate of sixty-three per thousand.”
Boyle glared at him. He turned to watch the party again, saying nothing.
Martie watched Julia talking with guests. She never had looked more beautiful. Pregnancy had softened her thin face, had added a glow. What had that bitch meant by saying she had so little time? He could hear Julia’s words inside his head: You’ll have to turn it over sooner or later. She didn’t understand. Boyle didn’t understand. Men like Whaite wouldn’t have repudiated a theory so thoroughly if there had been any merit whatsoever in it. It was myth only that said the science community was a real community. There were rivalries, but no corruption of that sort. The whole scientific world wouldn’t unite behind a lie. He rubbed his eyes. But how many of the scientists knew enough about biochemistry to form independent judgments? They had to take the word of the men who were considered authorities, and if they, fewer than a dozen, passed judgment, then that judgment was what the rest of the community accepted as final. Only the amateurs on the outside would question them, no one on the inside would think of doing so.
Martie tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. Fringe thinking. Nut thinking. They’d take away his badge and his white coat if he expressed such thoughts. But, damn it, they could! Six or eight, ten men could suppress a theory, for whatever reason they decided was valid, if only they all agreed. Over fourteen million deaths in the States in the past year. How many in the whole world? One hundred million, two hundred million? They’d probably never know.
“Hilary, I’m going up to Cambridge tomorrow, the next day, soon. I have to talk to Smithers’ widow.”
Hilary nodded. “At that death rate, how long to weed us out? Assuming Smithers was right, that forty percent can be treated.”
“About twelve and a half years, starting two years ago.” Martie spoke without stopping to consider his figures. He wasn’t sure when he had done that figuring. He hadn’t consciously thought of it.
He watched as Julia spoke with Dr. Wymann, holding his hand several seconds. She nodded, and the doctor turned and walked away. What had Wymann’s wife meant? Why had she said what she had? If “they” existed, she was one of them. As Wymann was. As Senator Kern was. Who else?
“I don’t believe it!”
“I know.”
“They couldn’t keep such figures quiet! What about France? England? Russia?”
“Nothing. No statistics for the last four years. Files burned, mislaid, not properly completed. Nothing.”
“Christ!” Boyle said.
Julia smoked too much, and paced until the phone rang. She snatched it up. “Martie! Are you all right?”
“Sure. What’s wrong, honey?” His voice sounded ragged, he was out of breath.
“Darling, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to alarm you, but I didn’t know how else to reach you. Don’t say anything now. Just come home, Martie, straight home. Will you?”
“But . . . Okay, honey. My flight is in fifteen minutes. I’ll be home in a couple of hours. Sit tight. Are you all right?”
“Yes. Fine. I’m fine.” She listened to the click at the other end of the line, and felt very alone again. She picked up the brief note that she had written and looked at it again. “Lester B. Hayes Memorial Hospital, ask for Dr. Conant.”
“It’s one on my list,” she said to Martie when he read it. “Hilary collapsed at his desk and they took him there. Martie, they’ll kill him, won’t they?”
Martie crumpled the note and let it drop. He realized that Julia was trembling and he held her for several minutes without speaking. “I have to make some calls, honey. Will you be all right?”
“Yes. I’m fine now. Martie, you won’t go, will you? You won’t go to that hospital?”
“Sh. It’s going to be all right, Julia. Sit down, honey. Try to relax.”
Boyle’s secretary knew only that she had found him sprawled across his desk and in the next few minutes, Kolchak, or someone, had called the ambulance and he was taken away to the hospital. The report they had was that he was not in serious condition. It had happened before, no one was unduly alarmed, but it was awkward. It never had happened before a show. This time . . . Her voice drifted away.
Martie slammed the receiver down. “It really has happened before. The hospital could be a coincidence.”
Julia shook her head. “I don’t believe it.” She looked at her hands. “How old is he?”
“Fifty, fifty-five. I don’t know. Why?”
“He’s too old for the treatment, then. They’ll kill him. He’ll die of complications from flu, or a sudden heart attack. They’ll say he suffered a heart attack at his desk. ...”
“Maybe he did have a heart attack. He’s been driving himself. . . . Overweight, living too fast, too hard, too many women and too much booze ...”
“What about Smithers? Did you see Mrs. Smithers?”
“Yes. I saw her. I was with her all morning. ...”
“And within an hour of your arrival there, Hilary collapses. You’re getting too close, Martie. You’re making them act now. Did you learn anything about Smithers, or his work?”
“It’s a familiar kind of thing. He published prematurely, got clobbered, then tried to publish for over a year and had paper after paper returned. During that time he saw everything he’d done brought down around his ears. His wife believes he committed suicide, although she won’t admit it even to herself. But it’s there, in the way she talks about them, the ones who she says hounded him. ...”
“And his papers?”
“Gone. Everything was gone when she was able to try to straighten things out. There wasn’t anything left to straighten out. She thinks he destroyed them. I don’t know. Maybe he did. Maybe they were stolen. It’s too late now.”
The phone shrilled, startling both of them. Martie answered. “Yes, speaking. ...” He looked at Julia, then turned his back. His hand whitened on the phone. “I see. Of course: An hour, maybe less.”
Julia was very pale when Martie hung up and turned toward her. “I heard,” she said. “The hospital . . . it’s one of theirs. Dr. Conant must be one of them.”
Martie sat down and said dully, “Hilary’s on the critical list. I didn’t think they’d touch him. I didn’t believe it. Not him.”
“You won’t go, will you? You know it’s a trap.”
“Yes, but for what? They can get to me any time they want. They don’t have to do it this way. There’s no place to hide.”
“I don’t know for what. Please don’t go.”
“You know what this is? The battle of the Cro-Magnon and the Neanderthal all over again. One has to eliminate the other. We can’t both exist in the same ecological niche.”
“Why can’t they just go on living as long as they want and leave us alone? Time is on their side.”
“They know they can’t hide it much
longer. In ten years it would be obvious, and they’re outnumbered. They’re fighting for survival, too. Hitting back first, that’s all. A good strategy.”
He stood up. Julia caught his arm and tried to pull him to her. Martie was rigid and remote. “If you go, they’ll win. I know it. You’re the only one now who knows anything about what is going on. Don’t you see? You’re more valuable than Boyle was. All he had was his own intuition and what you gave him. He didn’t understand most of it even. But you . . . They must have a scheme that will eliminate you, or force you to help them. Something.”
Martie kissed her. “I have to. If they just want to get rid of me, they wouldn’t be this open. They want something else. Remember, I have a lot to come back for. You, the baby. I have a lot to hate them for, too. I’ll be back.”
Julia swayed and held on to the chair until he turned and left the house. She sat down slowly, staring straight ahead.
Martie looked at Dr. Wymann without surprise. “Hilary’s dead?”
“Unfortunately. There was nothing that could be done. A fatal aneurism. ...”
“How fortunate for you.”
“A matter of opinion. Sit down, Dr. Sayre. We want to talk with you quite seriously. It might take a while.” Wymann opened the door to an adjoining office and motioned. Two men in doctors’ coats entered, nodded at Martie, and sat down. One carried a folder.
“Dr. Conant, and Dr. Fischer.” Wymann closed the door and sat down in an easy chair. “Please do sit down, Sayre. You are free to leave at any time. Try the door if you doubt my word. You are not a prisoner.”
Martie opened the door. The hallway was empty, gleaming black and white tiles in a zigzag pattern, distant noise of an elevator, sound of a door opening and closing. A nurse emerged from one of the rooms, went into another.
Martie closed the door again. “Okay, your show. I suppose you are in charge?”
“No. I’m not in charge. We thought that since you know me, and in light of certain circumstances, it might be easier if I talked to you. That’s all. Either of these two . . . half a dozen others who are available. If you prefer, it doesn’t have to be me.”
Martie shook his head. “You wanted me. Now what?”
Wymann leaned forward. “We’re not monsters, no more than any other human being, anyway. Smithers had exactly what he said he had. You know about that. He really died of a heart attack. So much for history. It works, Sayre. For forty percent of the people. What would you do with it? Should we have made it public? Held a lottery? It would have gone underground even more than it has now, but it would be different. We don’t want to kill anyone. The others, the ones who couldn’t use it, would search us out and exterminate us like vermin. You know that. In the beginning we needed time. We were too accessible, too vulnerable. A handful of people knew what it was, how to prepare it, how to test for results, how to administer it, what to watch for, all the rest. It’s very complicated. We had to protect them and we had to add numbers.”
Martie watched him, thinking, Julia knew. The babies. Both of them. The new pregnancy. She was afraid time was running out. This man, or another like him. Had they done anything, or simply failed to do something for the first two? Was there any difference really? His skin felt clammy and he opened his hands when he realized that his fingers were getting stiff.
“It’s going on everywhere, more or less like here. Have you read . . . ? No, of course not. . . . I’ll be frank with you, Sayre. The world’s on a powder keg, has been for over a year. Martial law in Spain, Portugal, Israel, most of the Mid-East. Nothing at all out of China. Japan ripped wide open by strikes and riots, tighter than a drum right now. Nothing’s coming out of there. It’s like that everywhere. Clampdown on all news. No travel that isn’t high-priority. France has been closed down for six months. More restrictions than when they were occupied. Same with England. Canada has closed her borders for the first time in history, as has Mexico. UNESCO recommended all this, in an effort to stop the epidemics, ostensibly. But really to maintain secrecy regarding the climbing death rate. And everyone’s panic-stricken, terrified of being hit next. It must have been like this during the Plague outbreaks. Walled cities, fear. Your story coming now would ignite the whole world. There’d be no way to maintain any sort of order. You know I’m right. We couldn’t let you and Boyle go on with it.”
Martie stood up. “If you try to sell yourselves as humanitarians, I might kill you right now.”
“It depends entirely on where you’re standing. Most men with any kind of scientific training see almost immediately that what we’ve done, how we’ve done it, was the only way this could have been handled. Out in the open, with more than half the people simply not genetically equipped to tolerate the RNA, there would have been a global catastrophe that would have destroyed all of mankind. Governments are made up of old men, Sayre. Old men can’t use it. Can you imagine the uprising against all the world governments that would have taken place! It would have been a holocaust that would have left nothing. We’ve prevented that.”
“You’ve set yourselves up as final judges, eliminating those who can’t take it. ...”
“Eliminating? We upset the entire Darwinian framework for evolution by our introduction of drugs, our transplants, life-saving machines. We were perpetuating a planet of mental and physical degenerates, with each generation less prepared to live than the last. I know you think we’re murderers, but is it murder to fail to prescribe insulin and let a diabetic die rather than pass on the genes to yet another generation?” Wymann started to pace, after glancing at his watch, checking it against the wall clock.
“There have been hard decisions, there’ll be more even harder ones. Every one of us has lost someone he cared for. Every one! Conant lost his first wife. My sister . . . We aren’t searching out people to kill, unless they threaten us. But if they come to us for treatment, and we know that they are terminal, we let them die.”
Martie moistened his lips. “Terminal. You mean mortal, with a temporary sore throat, or a temporary appendix inflammation, things you could treat.”
“They are terminal now, Sayre. Dying in stages. Dying from the day they are born. We don’t prolong their lives.”
“Newborn infants? Terminal?”
“Would you demand that newborn idiots be preserved in institutions for fifty or sixty years? If they are dying, we let them die.”
Martie looked at the other doctors, who hadn’t spoken. Neither of them had moved since arriving and sitting down. He turned again to Wymann. “You called me. What do you want?”
“Your help. We’ll need people like you. Forty percent of the population, randomly chosen, means that there will be a shortage of qualified men to continue research, to translate that research into understandable language. The same sort of thing you’re doing now. Or, if you prefer, a change of fields. But we will need you.”
“You mean I won’t suffer a thrombosis, or have a fatal wreck for the next twenty years, if I play along?”
“More than that, Martie. Much more than that. During your last physical examination for insurance you were tested, a routine test by the way. Not conclusive, but indicative. You showed no gross reactions to the synthetic RNA. You would have to be tested more exhaustively, of course, but we are confident that you can tolerate the treatments. ...”
“What about Julia? What do you plan for her?”
“Martie, have you thought at all about what immortality means? Not just another ten years tacked on at the end, or a hundred, or a thousand. As far as we know now, from all the laboratory data, there is no end, unless through an accident. And with our transplant techniques even that is lessening every week. Forever, Martie. No, you can’t imagine it. No one can. Maybe in a few hundred years we’ll begin to grasp what it means, but not yet. ...”
“What about Julia?”
“We won’t harm her.”
“You’ve tested her already. You know about her.”
“Yes. She cannot tolerate the RNA.�
��
“If anything goes wrong, you’ll fold your hands and let her die. Won’t you? Won’t you!”
“Your wife is a terminal case! Can’t you see that? If she were plugged into a kidney machine, a heart-and-lung machine, with brain damage, you’d want the plug pulled. You know you would. We could practice preventive medicine on her, others like her, for the next forty years or longer. But for what? For what, Dr. Sayre? As soon as they know, they’ll turn on us. We can keep this secret only a few more years. We know we are pushing our luck even now. We took an oath that we would do nothing to prolong the lives of those who are dying. Do you think they would stop at that? If they knew today, we’d be hunted, killed, the process destroyed. Lepers would rather infect everyone with their disease than be eradicated. Your wife will be thirty-five when the child is born. A century ago she would have been doomed by such a late pregnancy. She would have been an old woman. Modern medicine has kept her youthful, but it’s an artificial youthfulness. She is dying!”
Orbit 7 - [Anthology] Page 5