by D. F. Jones
“Yeah, thanks. You know, liver’s a fine food, very fine. Folks jest don’t eat enough of it. Steaks and more steaks! But these folks have cottoned to it in a big way, yes sir!” His voice sank to an even lower pitch. “An the screwiest thing is who them folks are!” He waited expectantly.
Scott was only too anxious to get rid of him. He stood up. “Oh — who?”
“You an’ me, doc, you might say we’re in the same line of business,” replied the butcher. “I don’t shoot off my mouth no more than you do — but I could. You’d be real ‘mazed the things I light on. Take a certain widder — week in week out, she gets by on a coupla chops — then, all of a sudden, she’s buyin’ two steaks, one large, one small, each Friday for the last month! Don’t tell me it’s for the dawg — she ain’t got one.”
“What’s that to do with your liver addicts?” Scott asked curtly.
“Gee, not a thing, doc! Jest pointin’ out I get to see a lotta things.” He read Scott’s expression correctly. “Yeah, the liver. All them folks from thet plane! Leastways, them or their families — they’re the ones that are wild for liver.”
Scott froze. Trying to look uninterested, he said offhandedly, “Maybe they got a recipe from radio or TV.”
The butcher took his time, regarding his thumb thoughtfully. Slowly he looked up at the doctor, a crafty smile spreading across his swollen drinker’s face.
“Mighty strange recipe, doc. Seems them plane folk are the only ones who care for it.” His eyes were slits in the folds of fat as his grin deepened. “Take ole Mrs. Groot and thet young niece of hers, de Byl, ’frinstance.” His piggy eyes searched Scott’s face for some reaction. “Jest the two of ’em, thet’s all, but twice this week they’ve had liver: two pounds on Monday, two pounds Wednesday. Thet’s a whole lot of liver fer two females! Mebbe I should get thet recipe!”
XV.
Jaimie Scott wasted no time in telling Freedman.
“Yes, very interesting.” He looked at Jaimie over the top of his glasses. “But is it the whole story? As far as he’s concerned it is, no doubt, but meat’s not the only food. We need more information, but we must tread carefully.” Until then, Scott had regarded the story as an isolated event, but clearly Mark saw it in a wider context. Jaimie began to see the point. “Okay, Mark, where do we go from here?”
“You tackle Shane unofficially. Don’t alarm her, but get all you can from her and her aunt. If you run into any other Special, pump them — discreetly. I’ll check with the two on my list for tomorrow. We’ll discuss our findings here, tomorrow afternoon.”
“Tomorrow afternoon! That’s not much time!”
“I don’t think there is much time.” Freedman offered no explanation. “Speculation based on such slim evidence is pointless, but I’ve got a nasty feeling this is not good news.”
When they met the following afternoon, six case histories lay on Freedman’s desk: four female, two male. The findings were identical. Apart from liver, each had an abnormal appetite for milk and beef extract.
Freedman ran one hand repeatedly through his thinning silver hair, a sure sign of agitation. “A damned small sample, but it has to be enough. What’s your preliminary diagnosis?”
Scott hesitated. “Well, preliminary has to be the word. I’d guess it’s a compulsive desire generated by a massive deficiency of vitamin B-12. But I’m at a loss as to what has caused the deficiency.”
Freedman nodded. “Yes, that’s one way of looking at it. Agreed, the evidence strongly suggests B-12, but I’m not so sure about the deficiency. It may not be an intake to restore imbalance. It may be to stock up for a new requirement.”
Scott laughed unconvincingly. “I’m pretty sure neither of the men are pregnant, and neither are Shane or her old aunt. That’s another thing,” he said apologetically, “I’ve just remembered Shane said they prefer their liver raw.”
Freedman looked at the notes. “I see you estimate each has a daily intake — along with standard foods — of a quart of milk, two to three ounces of beef extract, and a pound of raw liver.” Freedman’s hand went back to his hair. “That’s one hell of a — ”
The phone rang. Freedman answered monosyllabically, but something in his manner made Scott watch his face. Briefly their eyes met; Scott saw his colleague’s pupils dilate in shock. Twice Freedman asked for a name to be repeated; then the conversation ended abruptly. He replaced the receiver carefully and sat back, staring blankly.
“What’s wrong, Mark?”
Scott felt alarmed; Mark was not given to dramatics. “Mark, please tell me.”
Freedman spoke, his words coming in unusually short sentences. “Malin — he wants a meeting. Both of us. Washington.” He stifled Scott’s exclamation of surprise with a single look. “I said no. They’re coming here.”
“They — who are they?”
Mark pushed his spectacles up until they rested on his head; he rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Malin and a Dr. Marinskiya.”
Jaimie frowned. “Who’s he? Sounds like a Russian.”
“She. Tatyana Ivanovna Marinskiya. Malin didn’t elaborate, but she’s certainly Russian. The name mean anything to you?”
“A Russian doctor with an FBI agent?” Scott shook his head. “Sounds screwy to me. No, never heard of her — should I have?”
“Yes. She’s a big wheel in Soviet cytology, one of the foremost authorities in the world, in fact. She’s got a list of papers as long as your arm! The structure of cells, the function of cells, the multiplication of cells — you name it! First the B-12 discovery and now this — I don’t like it at all, Jaimie.”
“D’you think this may indicate possible tumors?”
“I don’t think anything,” replied Mark deliberately. “Not tonight. Come on; I’ve had enough for one day. What we need is a drink, maybe two.”
*
After the unproductive presidential conference, the ICARUS Ten lapsed into tense, apprehensive expectancy. But the committee was not altogether inactive. A secure voice link, operable by line or radio, was set up between each of the Ten and the Special Operations Room. Anywhere, anytime, all of them, including Sarah, could be in instant touch. So far as their duties allowed, none of the Ten moved far from Washington.
The committee concentrated on contingency plans, but now the emphasis was not on “if” but “when” the story broke. After Lebedev’s outburst, less concern was felt for the Soviet attitude. The party’s line had dearly been decided, and they would stick to it, come what may. To a degree, the committee accepted the idea that ICARUS was a natural, if rare, event. If that could be sold to the world, the U.S. would be in step with the USSR. But none of the Ten believed the story could be made to stick.
None of the Ten believed the story, period. Sarah had become particularly important to them, for she was the nearest they could get to an average person. Her belief could be the belief of millions, and she thought that ICARUS proved that something far greater than man existed.
Arcasso firmly rejected the natural phenomenon theory. Lebedev’s dismissal of the holes in the Ilyushin and the Jumbo cut no ice with him. For nights on end he sat up, filling his den with cigar smoke as he pored over the drawings showing the location of the holes in the two planes.
His wife tried pleading, seduction, and — when that failed — blazing rage. Nothing made a difference. She thought seriously of leaving him. She was an ambitious woman, and even Frank’s sudden promotion to brigadier, arranged by the President to give him more weight, gave her little satisfaction. Unlike her husband, she had long dreamed of that single star. But she rapidly discovered that her improved status in the Washington circle of military wives was a poor reward for the increasing tension at home. Frank had taken to spending his twenty-four hours as duty boss in his office, sleeping on a campbed in the operations room. On balance, it was more restful.
One afternoon he was in the ops room when the presidential phone rang. The president of the USSR had been on the hot
line. It was in the urgent interest of the United States, he said, for a Soviet doctor to visit the medical team attending the Jumbo passengers. If Knowlton agreed, Tatyana Marinskiya could be in Washington tomorrow, explaining her mission on arrival. Knowlton consented immediately.
Arcasso called an emergency meeting of the committee. Wasting no time on idle surmise, they proposed that Malin should be her escort. If Malin considered it necessary, this doctor in Abdera, Freedman, should be admitted to the ICARUS circle. They didn’t care for the idea — but, as Malin pointed out, if a doctor had to be involved, Freedman was the best bet. Naturally Malin had run a check on him. Freedman was very well qualified, and security-wise he was rated sound, although security in the old pre-ICARUS sense was meaningless. The chairman called the President and got his immediate approval.
Malin ran a similar check on Dr. Marinskiya. He was not a medical enthusiast, but he found her academic record impressively long, although cytology meant nothing to him. Lacking time to summon an FBI doctor to explain further, he let it go — trouble would come soon enough without him searching for it. He met her at International Airport the next afternoon.
*
Doctor Tatyana Ivanovna Marinskiya turned out to be the universal Mother figure. A round-faced, rather dumpy woman, she looked like more of an authority on home-baked cookies than on cells. Dressed in a Robin Hood hat, heavy shoes and a tweed jacket and skirt that certainly had not been made in Paris or London, she was barely feminine enough not to look like a male in drag. On her matronly bosom was a cheap brooch, and her plump hands displayed a number of rings. Malin, who had an eye for jewelry, figured that if he had the gall to give his wife such trinkets, she’d have stuffed them down his throat. He didn’t care to imagine his mistress’ reaction.
Fortunately for Malin, whose Russian was rusty, she spoke excellent English — with, strangely enough, an English accent. He’d fixed customs and immigration, and within minutes of deplaning, they were on the way to her hotel. For security reasons, there would be no contact with the Soviet embassy.
En route, Malin probed to see just how much she knew. He soon discovered she was completely up to date on all aspects of ICARUS. Malin thought she appeared remarkably calm and cheerful for a person sent here to deal with the mind-boggling mystery of ICARUS. He concluded that she had either swallowed the party line, or was so wrapped up in cytology that she hardly cared. Such people did exist; Malin had a good many specialists on his staff who would gaze fearlessly through the gates of hell to further their knowledge of their field.
Tatyana probed, too. Was Malin a doctor? No? In that case, she said politely, there was little point in involving him in details. In general, her experience with the two Ilyushin pilots would help the medical team attending the Jumbo travelers, and — she added frankly — the American doctors might add to her understanding as well.
Her cheerfulness faded when she learned that the “medical team” consisted of two country doctors, and that the time travelers were not in a sanitorium under observation, but were scattered around, doing whatever they pleased. Malin saw her to her hotel, invited her to dine with him, then left to arrange transportation for the following day.
Next morning they flew to Albany County Airport, where an FBI car met them. During the two-and-a-half-hour journey she said little, smiling politely when he glanced at her, but Malin had no doubt she was quietly observing. During dinner the night before, both had avoided any reference to ICARUS or medicine. But despite their efforts to stick to trivialities, he recognized that behind the motherly apple-pie exterior lay a very keen mind, eager to get to work.
En route, he explained that the doctors she would meet were not yet cleared by ICARUS. If she would be good enough to give him ten minutes to talk with them, Malin would be grateful. She readily agreed. But he read in her watchful eyes something akin to amazement at the way a democracy worked.
Once Malin had briefed Freedman and Scott, he ushered Tatyana into their office, made the introductions, and left. Aside from ICARUS, there were two things Malin couldn’t stand: heights and medical talk. He drove around Abdera, getting an idea of the layout. Maybe he’d be called upon to quarantine the joint.
He figured the doctors would be at it for at least two hours; he’d give them a call after a late lunch.
Malin was far too optimistic.
XVI.
All Malin’s telephone call got him was a thinly veiled invitation to get lost. Another two hours passed. With a thousand things piling up in Washington, he felt he would go crazy if he hung around any longer. He returned to Freedman’s office and was greeted, if that is the word, with blank stares; he might have been a total stranger. Even the office seemed unfamiliar. The air was blue with the smoke from Freedman’s pipe, and pungent with the odor of Russian tobacco. Marinskiya, her jacket off, was drawing diagrams. Scott was reading case notes. Coffee cups, glasses, case histories, books, and a bottle of whiskey cluttered the desk.
Freedman practically threw the FBI man out. Yes, he would report as soon as possible, but right now time did not permit. Malin, surprised by this brusque reception, asked if should return later. Freedman seemed annoyed by his persistence. “Yes, tomorrow,” he said. “Or the next day.” Pressed by Malin, Freedman said impatiently that Doctor Marinskiya would be staying with him.
Too worried by the implications of Freedman’s manner to be annoyed, Malin left for Washington. The doctors had forgotten him before he reached his car.
*
Freedman liked his Soviet colleague, her simple, direct approach. She had no false modesty about her status, but did not try to pull rank on him.
She had begun by clearing the ground: How much did Freedman know of her specialty? Freedman replied truthfully that he had read with interest one paper of hers, but was hardly up-to-date. Scott, who had graduated from med school much more recently, might know more.
Marinskiya took off her jacket, lit a cigarette, and plunged into a heavily condensed postgraduate course in cytology, amazing both men with her masterly presentation, done straight off the top of her head. She in turn quickly decided that if Freedman was a fair specimen of an American GP, she would have to re-evaluate her low opinion of Western medicine.
Questions and answers followed. Marinskiya’s bright blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, gratified by the Americans’ quick understanding. With the whiskey came first names, and Tatyana kicked off her shoes.
But this was no party. Carefully she stuck to the general principles of cytology, making sure there would be no areas of misunderstanding in either language or terminology.
Only when satisfied that both men had grasped the basics did she start on Case ICARUS, Event Two, the Ilyushin-14 pilot and copilot.
From the time they landed, both men had been kept in a KGB sanitorium in Vorkuta. For the first few months their detention had been for security reasons — and, Tatyana added quickly, for psychological examination. Nearly a year had elapsed before any serious interest was taken in their physical condition, apart from standard checks. One of these checkups revealed that a minor complaint of the pilot’s (Freedman identified it as athlete’s foot) had completely cleared up. Without treatment by powerful antibiotics, that was extremely unusual. Both men were minutely examined. Both were not only fit, they were in excellent condition.
And that, too, said Tatyana candidly, was surprising. Though efficiently run, the sanitorium was a KGB establishment and not famous for luxuries. It was located at Vorkuta, a town well inside the Arctic Circle, bitterly cold in the six-month winter and, as she put it, “unfavorable” for the rest of the year. As a result of the interest the report aroused, KGB approval was obtained and the men were flown three thousand kilometers south to a medical research establishment near Odessa.
Odessa, explained Tatyana patriotically, was in all respects a beautiful place, comparing very favorably with the south of France, the Caribbean, California, or any other resort area. Here the men were re-examined, subjected to
extensive tests, and in their off-lime allowed to relax, free from dose KGB surveillance.
Freedman asked about the men’s diet. Tatyana looked at him blankly. What of it? It had been, so far as she knew, a normal, perfectly adequate diet. Freedman nodded, apologizing for the interruption.
The aviators had been in the Odessa establishment less than three weeks when the first sign of trouble was noted. Both complained of feeling tired, although they slept well enough. This was at first attributed to the change in climate, but the condition did not pass; it worsened.
Another week, and neither of the men seemed able to keep his eyes open for more than an hour at a stretch. Fresh examinations revealed nothing, but since both looked as if they might fall asleep standing up, they were hospitalized.
“And here,” said Tatyana, her voice husky from talk and too many cigarettes, “I want you to follow most closely. The men were put to bed, extremely lethargic but apparently otherwise fit, on the afternoon of what we afterwards designated Day One.
“By the morning of Day Two, their condition, particularly that of the pilot, had worsened. Even after a good ten hours of sleep, both men fell into a coma soon after being awakened for breakfast. Clinically, the symptoms indicated a terminal diabetic condition. But it was not diabetes. The men were again examined that morning, and a small lesion, less than a centimeter in diameter, was discovered on the left side of the pilot’s neck. That was all. It was not regarded as significant, possibly an insect bite — ”
Freedman sat up, suddenly alert, but shook his head when Tatyana looked at him inquiringly. “No,” he said, “go on.”
“By evening the lesion had grown to the size of a pigeon’s egg; it was hard to the touch and fibrous around the periphery, resilient at the center. The pilot’s coma had deepened; intravenous feeding was ordered. The doctors decided excision was the only answer. Early in the morning of Day Three — the growth by that time the size of a duck’s egg — they operated. Surgically it presented no problems, and was completed satisfactorily.” Tatyana took a sip of her whiskey, her hand trembling slightly. “Within two hours the man died; cause, cardiac failure.”