by D. F. Jones
And then they were back with the impossible question: Why? Arcasso shied away from that, stating bluntly that whatever the cause, he was convinced the secret could not be kept for long. He added forcefully that they’d better do some heavy thinking on that angle, and soon. “Meanwhile,” he concluded, “I need some sleep, even if Jesus Christ is the Prime Mover.” No one smiled, least of all Arcasso.
*
The phone woke him from five hours of uneasy sleep. The President had called a meeting — the first — of the ICARUS Ten for the next day, timed to dovetail with the postmortem report on the body, already airborne in a B-l fire truck. “It’s about time,” snarled Arcasso, and tried to get back to sleep.
The rank and prestige of those attending the late night meeting in the White House bespoke the alarming nature of the ICARUS problem. President Robert J. Knowlton waited silently as his guests — Secretary of State Erwin J. Lord, Secretary of Defense Herbert F. Morton, FBI and CIA chiefs Malin and Langbaum, the other members of the ICARUS Committee, and Colonel-General Lebedev of the Soviet Union — made themselves comfortable. Sarah, the secretary, was also in attendance, ready to record the minutes.
The tension was so great that Arcasso, who rated zero in this high-rank collection, felt in no way inferior. They were people bound together by a common, fearful secret, a secret which made rank a triviality.
The President, his famous vote-catching smile conspicuously absent, spoke briefly, introducing Lebedev calmly, unemotionally, as if the presence of a KGB general at a secret presidential conference were an everyday affair. He stated the object of their meeting: to establish, if possible, the cause of the Events. An update would begin the session.
CIA Joe reported on the body of the F-51 pilot. “I hate to be an alarmist,” he said, “but I can’t avoid it. I can only tell you what the doctors found.”
The cause of death had not been established with complete certainty. The postmortem had identified two distinct types of injuries; either could have been fatal. One type was the result of impact, and included a broken neck, a severed jugular, and multiple injuries to chest and arms. But the second set …
The body contained metal fragments, widely distributed over chest, abdomen, and legs. The fragments had been identified by ballistics as bits of twenty-millimeter cannon shells, probably German.
As he listened, Arcasso’s mind leaped ahead. The back of his neck seemed to crawl and his hair seemed to stand on end. Instinctively he looked at Lebedev, the only other aviator present: His heavy Slavic face had sagged, and sweat glistened on his brow.
CIA Joe went on. The second type — wounds as opposed to injuries — would have caused death by severe hemorrhaging within four or five minutes. But in the case of the impact injuries, death would have been instantaneous. If the pilot had died of wounds, there would have been no loss of blood from the severed jugular — certainly a result of the crash, since a sliver of bamboo had been found in the wound. But owing to the state of the body, the doctors could not state positively that the blood on the neck had come from the severed vein.
Here Joe interrupted the hard facts of the report to make his own comment. Naturally, since the doctors had no idea of the truth, they’d concluded that the pilot, wounded by flak, had lost control and crashed — what more was there to say? But Joe had pressed them. Okay, they couldn’t be sure, but weighing all the probabilities, when did they think the man died — in the air, or on hitting the ground?
Although puzzled by what struck them as an irrelevant and academic question, the three doctors reexamined the evidence. Reluctantly, all three agreed that the pilot had died in the crash.
CIA Joe laid the report gently on the desk and looked around the table. “Mr. President, gentlemen: I interrogated the doctors myself; they didn’t like giving a firm answer, but answer they did. I am left in no serious doubt that the pilot sustained combat injuries in 1944 which would have killed him within minutes, but that he died in 1983.”
Arcasso was not the only one who felt physically sick. The President broke the silence. “Joe, why 1944?”
“Colonel Arcasso has the collateral evidence, sir.”
Frank cleared his throat. His mouth was dry and his voice seemed to belong to someone else. Haltingly, he made his report. Pilot and plane had been traced. Both had been logged as missing on operations over Normandy, France, on June 7, 1944.
“Gentlemen, what we’ve heard is impossible — yet it’s happened! I don’t know what to say … ”
The cry for help in the President’s voice was not missed by Erwin Lord. The secretary of state was reputed to be the coldest, most logical brain in the government, a man whose surname came in for much sardonic word play. “Mr. President,” he said, trying to contain the incipient hysteria, “it is said that the solution to a problem lies less in the answers than in the questions posed. Let me ask one. It may appear a flat-footed approach, but I believe we won’t get anyplace if we don’t take things slowly, one step at a time. My question is this: is ICARUS, in our opinion, of this world — or is it not?” He held up a restraining hand. “Back in my Navy days, it was the custom for the junior officer to answer first — to make sure he was not influenced by his seniors. One more thing. I want a straight yes or no — the supplementaries come later.”
To the surprise of some, he directed his cold gaze at Sarah. “You, miss. You’ve been in this as long ‘as any of us, and are just as entitled to give a view as anyone sitting around this table.”
She looked straight at the secretary of state, her voice low, but under control. “ICARUS is not of this world. I think — ”
Lord’s hand stopped her. “One thing at a time.” He glanced sharply at Arcasso.
“I have to agree,” said Frank heavily. “Extraterrestrial.”
“Colonel-General Lebedev?”
The Russian said bleakly, “I am only an observer.”
Defense Secretary Morton threw down his pencil in disgust. “Jesus! This isn’t the UN! Don’t pussyfoot around — answer as a human being, not a goddam commie!”
Lebedev remained unmoved. “It is not a fair question,” he said stolidly.
The President glowered, his gray eyes cold. “A fair question! This isn’t a court of law, general!”
“If I may,” said Lord softly. “I think I understand our colleague’s position. My question was intended to clarify, to clear the way for other questions, based on preceding answers — in fact, the dialectical approach, which he naturally recognized.”
Lebedev inclined his head fractionally. The rest of the group eyed the secretary curiously. This was kindergarten stuff, not his normal style.
“For me,” Lord continued calmly, “the general’s failure, or unwillingness, to answer is no surprise.” He looked directly at the Russian. “And let me say I’m not trying to score cheap political points.” He smiled. “If I was, this wouldn’t be the audience I’d choose. My lack of surprise is grounded primarily on the belief that the only answer to my first question is that ICARUS is extraterrestrial.” He gestured apologetically. “So I’ve blown my own seniority system of answering. But does anyone believe otherwise?”
“It’s crazy!” said Joe angrily. “We know we’re not responsible, and with the time scale shifted back as far as 1944, neither the Soviet Union nor China were in any state to play technological games — so who else? The British?” He shook his head. “No. And no other combatant nation had any power potential for ICARUS. Much as I dislike saying it, I vote for extraterrestrial. And it scares the hell out of me.”
“And you, Mr. President?” Quietly Lord had taken charge of the meeting.
Robert Knowlton’s “I concur” was barely audible.
“Anyone disagree? No? So we are agreed that ICARUS is not of this world. This surely means that we accept as a fact that a non-human, extraterrestrial agency, with powers we cannot even begin to grasp, is responsible.
“Let’s get back to our Russian colleague’s problem, one which is,
I think, a great deal worse than ours. Gentlemen, I’m no theologian, but isn’t ICARUS beginning to look something like a god? I’m quite certain that if this matter becomes public, an awful lot of people will think so, and maybe act accordingly. There lies General Lebedev’s dilemma. He will forgive me for quoting Marx: ‘Religion is the opium of the people’ …
“Atheism is a cornerstone of communism of whatever shade — Marxist/Leninist, Maoist, Trotskyite. Okay, we in the West may not be very religious, but at least we leave the door open. ICARUS doesn’t look like our idea of God, and it would come as a hell of a shock to us, but we’d adjust.” He looked directly at the Russian, “But what happens to a creed that for a hundred years has denied the existence of any sort of God?”
“No!” Lebedev’s, fist crashed on the table, his heavy-lidded eyes glaring at the secretary of state. “No! ICARUS is a natural phenomenon which we have not met before — no more than that! Compared with the earth’s age, man has only been here a few seconds!” His fierce gaze moved from face to face. “Ice ages changed the world; do you not believe in them because you have never seen one? ICARUS may be a power storm, an event that only happens every thousand years! Until man flew, he had no idea they existed. It is a natural force we do not understand — yet!” He glared. “It is not a god!”
Arcasso broke the silence which followed. “How d’you account for the holes in the Ilyushin and the Jumbo, General?”
Lebedev turned his smoldering gaze on the speaker. “They have no significance!” Arcasso did not answer; his expression was enough.
“May I?” The secretary of state glanced inquiringly at the President, who nodded. “General, I did not say ICARUS was a god. I said what I think the average person will think. Your definition — ‘a natural force we do not understand’ — fits a god as easily as it does a power storm — whatever that may be. We’re playing with words; the reality doesn’t change. Humanity has worshiped practically every damned thing at one time or another. Okay, call it a power storm. In no time flat ICARUS will become ‘the god of the storm.’ The return of those two planes is the most incredible event ever — unless,” he added, “you happen to be a Christian. No, General. As I said before, we in the West have at least kept the door ajar. You slammed yours shut back in 1917. Now it’s been torn off its hinges!”
XIV.
As time passed, Mark Freedman — while not exactly worried — became faintly uneasy about his Special List patients. The case of the de Byl girl’s leg, remarkable as it was, was not conclusive evidence of anything. All the same, few time travelers required his services, though many had been regular patients before the flight. Discreetly, Freedman rechecked some. Old Mrs. Jane’s varicose veins looked a lot better. A case of hypertension showed a reduction in blood pressure. And one ancient woman with an arthritic hip was getting around without a stick for the first time in years. She told him it was due to “them government rays,” advising him to get some.
Freedman heard nothing from Malin after his report on the girl’s leg. Maybe the FBI had lost interest, but he was far too cagey to believe that. Diligently, he wrote up his case histories, watching, listening, saying nothing.
Then, on a late spring morning, a Special did show up: a spry seventy-year-old widow. She had a mind, she said coyly, to marry one of the widowers from the historic trip. They both felt fine, but the old goat, although touching seventy, had some pretty young ideas about, well — bed. Did the doctor think … ?
He grabbed the chance to do another physical. Later he described her to Scott as a vintage Rolls-Royce: The suspension might be weaker and the paintwork scratched, but aside from that she appeared to be in fine form.
He gave her a clean bill of health, and suggested that her swain pay a call. His checkup gave the same result. Aside from an insect bite not a darned thing had bothered him since the flight. Freedman had long suspected the man had heart trouble, but the EKG readout and his own observations proved otherwise. A lot of men of forty weren’t in as good shape. Freedman gave the union his professional blessing, but warned the man not to overdo the sex.
“If you want to — and can — that’s fine,” he said. “But no pills, no artificial stimulants.”
“Glad to hear you say that, doctor.” His patient glanced at the closed door and said in a low, confidential voice, “Guess we’ve been doin’ a little practicin’. Mind you” — he looked conspiratorially at Freedman — “never more than three, mebbe four times a week.”
This admission shook Freedman. He’d known the man for twenty years, and in his estimation the patient had never been a sexual flyer. Seven years widowed, he’d shown no signs of deprivation. Now the old devil was back in the game, and still had enough spare energy for a speculative glance at the nurse’s tail.
Scott’s report told the same story, though Freedman discounted his observation, for all Jaimie’s spare time went into observing Shane de Byl. Up and about in record time — but far less keen on skiing — she built no roadblocks in the young doctor’s path to her. Passing her by chance in the street, Freedman noted her radiant health and evident happiness, and harbored some uncharitable thoughts about his assistant’s conduct off-duty.
*
It was after this chance encounter that Freedman evolved a new attitude toward medicine. Until now, he reasoned, the basic aim of his profession had been to maintain or restore a patient’s health. What constituted health clearly varied with age. Expressed as a graph, the line would rise from zero at birth, peak near twenty-one, and decline thereafter slowly at first, then heading steeply downward. Freedman was well aware that his mental graph was correct only in the broadest terms. But for him it served its purpose. Any physician knew he could do little about degenerative conditions — a man of ninety complaining of arthritis simply could not be restored to his state at twenty; even if it were possible to eradicate his disease, he still could not move with youthful agility. His aging organs, however healthy, limited him.
Now, as Freedman saw it, a new graph had to be drawn. Given the X factor involved in time travel, the decline was far less steep. Natural degeneration had, he guessed, not only stopped — it had become regeneration. The graph might be a straight line. It might even rise.
Freedman secretly wished for a second “accident.” Seventy-odd people were not statistically satisfying. Above all, he burned to know details of the secret time warp device. If the active factor could be isolated …
Inwardly he allowed himself to dream. The X factor might lead not to a mere return to health, to an elevation to a new, unknown level of superhealth. Man had gone a long way in that direction with selective breeding of animals — cattle, sheep, and hogs far exceeded their wild forebears in size and health. Was he, quite accidentally, on the verge of doing the same thing for his own species? Freedman did not find that aspect particularly exciting; to produce larger, longer-living humans did not strike him as a meaningful exercise. But to give humanity superhealth for a span of, say, seventy to eighty years — that was another thing altogether. He realized he could not jump to conclusions. The sample was too small, the time scale too narrow; there could be a sudden, steep drop in the graph, a rapid regression.
Even so, the germ of the idea existed. The Wright brothers’ first flight had been immensely useful — to know a thing was possible was more than half the battle. Superhealth — raising humanity to a new, amazing level — might just be practical. The active ingredient in the X factor had to be found.
*
Freedman called Malin and suggested a meeting with the bureau’s medical men. To his annoyance, Malin showed up instead.
Although they had met only once before, the doctor’s practiced eye took immediate note of the marked change in his visitor. Clearly the man had lost weight, was exhausted and under great stress.
Malin explained, not very successfully, that for security reasons a medical get-together was not possible. He would faithfully report Freedman’s views. In due course, he did.
&n
bsp; The committee took no notice. The doctor’s theory was based, as they well knew, on a totally false premise — and as for the health of a bunch of senior citizens, what was that to men in their situation?
Not unnaturally, Freedman felt somewhat discouraged after Malin’s visit, but not enough to lose interest in his Specials. The discouragement lay in Malin’s reaction. He was a man, thought Freedman, in need of a long rest. Freedman flirted briefly with the idea of going over Malin’s head, but decided to hold his cards, await developments. Events rapidly justified him.
*
Abdera’s butcher was the first to observe the phenomenon. A big-bellied man, devoted to beer and careless of dress, his clumsiness with a meat cleaver made him a frequent visitor to the doctor’s office. Shortly after Freedman had devised his theory, the butcher rolled into the office, one thumb roughly bandaged.
Wondering how such a ham-fisted guy had become a butcher, Scott cleaned and stitched up the nasty gash. To keep his patient’s mind off the operation, he asked how trade was.
“Not so good, doc,” rumbled the man in a deep, beery voice. “Back in the winter it wasn’t bad, wasn’t bad at all. But now I’m jest fillin’ up the deep-freezes. Outa season this town dies.” He fell silent, contemplating the dullness of Abdera. “ ‘Course, thet fuss over them plane folks gave a lift to trade — all them reporters an’ TV fellers. Now thet’s over and gone.” Again he sank into somber silence, but resumed suddenly with greater animation as an intriguing thought came to mind. “Tell you one thing, doc — the durndest thing! Some folks around this town have gone plumb crazy on liver! Jest can’t get enough. Lamb’s liver is what they want, but I tell ’em, a lamb’s only got so much liver, an’ I don’t have enough to go round.” He nodded, saluting his own wisdom. “They settle for any goddam liver. Whaddaya make of thet, doc?”
Scott, now busy taping up the thumb, did not seem concerned. “I’ve no idea,” he said and gave instructions for the future care of the thumb. The butcher, not to be put off, rambled on.