by D. F. Jones
As evening closed in, Tatyana Marinskiya left for Albany on the first leg of her journey home. Both sides would keep in close touch; she would like to return the moment anything developed. The good-byes said, she moved to enter the car, then paused, turning to Scott, holding his arm in a viselike grip. “Don’t worry, Jaimie,” she said solemnly. “She is a good, strong girl. I know the type — strong!” Then she embraced him in true Russian style. Freedman watched, smiling, and was embraced in his turn.
Freedman sensed she yearned to talk about the deeper implications of ICARUS. Perhaps time did not allow it — or was there some other reason?
*
Within minutes of her departure Freedman was talking with Malin, giving him the essential facts. Xeno was an unknown parasite. The Jumbo crew and passengers were almost certainly affected. A meeting at the earliest moment was essential. Drastic action must be taken. A written report would be ready the next day.
Scott listened, anxious to hear Malin’s reaction, but Freedman hung up, shaking his head. “Too soon, Jaimie. Malin’s practically speechless. I don’t blame him. Give him time,” he smiled thinly. “Like until tomorrow.” He clapped his assistant on the shoulder. “Come on, my boy! Help me to get the report written. It’s a nasty situation, but don’t despair. Already we know a great deal more than the Russians did, and with luck we’ve got five or six months to get organized.”
Freedman wrote swiftly, revised and wrote again, tossing the sheets to Scott, who hunted and pecked out the final copy on a typewriter.
At 7:00 P.M. they broke for a hasty supper. Before leaving for Mom’s, Scott excused himself; he had a call to make.
Freedman smiled to himself; he could guess who was being called.
Two minutes later Scott burst into Freedman’s office, his face chalk white.
“Mark! I called Shane — got her aunt — ” He swallowed. “Shane’s gone to bed — says she feels very tired!”
An innocent-sounding sentence, but an invisible, icy hand clutched at Freedman’s heart.
XVIII.
Malin’s personal secretary had known for a long time that he was mixed up in something very sensitive — and judging by the increasing strain he showed, something pretty important. Her first guess had been marital problems; she knew all about his mistress, and suspected Mrs. Malin was also well informed. But she’d tossed that theory away months ago. Whatever it was, it had to be a lot more serious than sex.
Even so, she was not prepared for the sight of Malin as he passed unsteadily through her office, saying nothing, looking as if he’d just seen a ghost. Dr. Freedman had brought this on, no doubt. To her he was only a name, but Malin had given strict orders that Freedman should be connected with him anytime, anyplace, no matter what.
And Freedman had called. After that, she knew nothing. Her boss hadn’t made any calls through her, but he had two private phones.
Should she call Mrs. Malin, warn her that her husband looked sick? No, that would be indiscreet — and indiscretion was a secretary’s one unforgivable error. She’d do nothing.
*
Malin felt as ghastly as he looked. Freedman’s terse report far exceeded his worst fears. For several minutes he had sat, hand still on the phone, forcing his brain to battle with this new crisis.
Parasites! God almighty — where had they come from? What were they? Well, so much for Lebedev’s power storm theory. Freedman had conveyed the urgency he felt. To convene the committee would waste time.
He got the President on the ICARUS line, taking a slightly perverse pleasure in being the first to give him the bad news. Shaken, the President agreed to a meeting of the Ten; he’d be free at nine that evening; would this doctor be there?
No; said Malin, thinking quickly, but the Soviet specialist was arriving from Abdera. If she had hard news, he’d bring her.
At eight thirty he met her plane. Within minutes they were talking urgently in the security of his car as they raced toward the White House. She had hard news all right.
Eight of the Ten were present. Formalities had been dispensed with totally — no handshakes, no chitchat, just grim silence until the President strode in and took the chair. Without preamble, he called on Malin to update them. Malin repeated Freedman’s verbal report, then introduced the Soviet doctor. She had details.
Tatyana felt tired and worried. During her journey she’d taken her first long look at the wider implications of ICARUS. As a good Soviet citizen and party member, she had until this time concentrated on her duty, the narrow medical aspect and nothing else. The rest did not concern her; other, higher comrades in party and government dealt with that. But some of the undisciplined freedom, the diversity of thought, she’d observed in the States had gotten through. For the first time in her life she was asking herself questions, and she did not like the answers.
Her account was cold and factual and made her audience suitably uncomfortable. The only hope she offered — their expressions showed they snatched at it — was the possible breathing space of six months before the full weight of the Xenos fell upon them.
The President thanked her. Did anyone have a question?
“Yes,” said Arcasso. “The small holes in the Ilyushin and Jumbo Papa Kilo — could they be connected to these bites?”
Tatyana shrugged helplessly. “I have no idea. Parasites, insects” — she waved a plump hand irritably — “I know little. Ask your Dr. Freedman; he has wide medical experience and is very well read in insect biology.” She changed the subject. “What is of vital importance is to prepare for what must come. I’d be happy to assist, but three doctors are hopelessly inadequate. There must be more, plus laboratory and surgical facilities — a hospital, in fact — including cobalt ray machines.” She saw the anguish on several faces. “Yes, the secret of ICARUS is endangered, but will it be any better if you do nothing?”
“Doctor,” said the President, “our country has never sat on its hands in a crisis, and we won’t start now. But we have to consider the good of the whole nation, indeed, the world. The news is horrifying. Imagine the reaction of a world totally unprepared for these dreadful revelations! ICARUS material must be restricted to a minimum number of people, as I’m sure your government will agree.”
“Very probably,” said Tatyana, “but it doesn’t alter my views. Also, do not overlook that it’s your government, not mine, that faces this immediate problem.”
“Mr. President,” said CIA Joe, “the Army must have a suitable hospital we could use. I agree with our Russian colleague; like it or not, the ICARUS Staff has to be greatly expanded. I don’t think that’s too serious. What does worry me — security-wise — is how the hell we get all these Abdera folk in there without comment.”
The discussion went on for quite a while, ending with the drafting of a presidential directive to the Chief of Staff, Armed Forces. A suitable Army hospital was to be found, cleared of existing patients and restaffed with appropriate service personnel, all of whom would be inducted into the ICARUS group. Doctors Freedman and Scott would be asked to cooperate with the hospital, the former acting as an advisor on additional equipment and as a member of the hospital’s medical committee. Action was to be taken immediately; the hospital was to be fully operational in three months time.
On the side, the FBI would keep track of all who had been in Papa Kilo on its fateful flight. The FBI and CIA would be jointly responsible for producing whatever scheme could get them all into the hospital with a minimum of publicity.
As a first step, Malin would at once consult with Doctor Freedman regarding future planning and obtain his views, as the man on the spot, on how best to maintain secrecy in Abdera.
The meeting ended. All were satisfied with the progress made, quite certain that in three months time, well ahead of the predicted crisis, the organization to meet it would be ready. Once more, the larger implications were, by unspoken agreement, shelved.
*
Pouring herself a stiff whiskey — Malin had provided a bedside bot
tle — Tatyana Marinskiya felt satisfied, too. These Americans certainly moved when they had to. When their capitalistic society finally crumbled, and they took the path of socialism to communism, might they not become the most powerful socialist state?
She washed away that unpatriotic thought with a second slug of whiskey, dropped gratefully into bed, and slept almost at once.
*
But in Abdera Hollow, deep in the Catskill country of Rip Van Winkle, perhaps a dozen people slept even more soundly.
And in a small suburban house on the outskirts of Lafayette, Louisiana, two children were deep in the same sick sleep, oblivious to the wrangling of their parents downstairs. Not for the first time, they argued about spending their government handout. Hell, they’d collected two thousand bucks apiece — eight thousand for the family — and had the prospect of more.
High over Central America, bound for Atlanta, Georgia, a young stewardess confided to a colleague that she could hardly keep her eyes open.
XIX.
Mark did not completely allay Jaimie’s fears, but he succeeded in quieting them. To jump to hasty conclusions was unprofessional and no way to help Shane. Wasn’t it possible, for instance, that the aunt was too shy to say that Shane had the curse, felt lousy, and had hit the sack?
That slowed Jamie up. He confessed he had no idea of Shane’s menstrual cycle, but recalled she’d been out of sorts maybe a month back.
They finished the report around midnight and, carefully nursing his fragile hope, Jaimie went home to his two-room apartment. Mark said he’d lock up and go home, too. He lied. Alone, he lit his pipe, read notes, and brooded about Xeno.
At 2:00 A.M. he drove to his modest house, left his car in the driveway, and let himself in quietly. His wife, long since accustomed to his irregular hours, had not waited up.
For a time he pattered around his den, pretending to prepare for bed. But his mind was far too active for sleep. He poured a small whiskey, drowned it with soda, lit another pipe, and lay down on the sofa with a book. All along he’d known he’d wind up with this particular volume. The subject was insects. It was better to grapple with the immediate problem, anyway; the more frightening implications must wait.
It has been said that if all the world’s animals, man included, were put into one pan of a cosmic set of scales, and all the world’s insects into the other, the insects would outweigh the animals. Perhaps an unconscious realization of the staggering scope and variety of the insect horde lay at the root of humanity’s dislike and fear of insects.
Freedman found their world absorbing. A lot of his spare time went into study of all forms of wild life, but animals and birds were practically human compared to insects, his deepest interest.
This fascination for biology had been a major factor in his decision to settle in Abdera Hollow. Globetrotting had ended in marriage, and there he had faced a choice: carve out a reputation and earn big money in the city, or forget all that and do the things he liked. His wife was amenable either way, so Abdera Hollow won.
Now his hobby assumed new importance. Xeno had to be an insect, regardless of its origin. It was also a parasite, using a totally different species as a womb and a food supply for its young. From that leaped a new and frightening line of speculation that he firmly thrust aside, for it had no bearing on the immediate problem.
In principal, Xeno was nothing new. A number of insects parasitized cattle, horses, man, other insects — the list of hosts was endless. The method of attack varied with the victim’s size. A predator whose host was of comparable size usually paralyzed its victim with a sting and implanted its eggs, leaving the host to be eaten alive by its young when they emerged. Larger creatures like man or cattle were implanted secretly and painlessly, but in every case that Mark could recall, the basic method was the same: they implanted their hosts by means of an egg-layer, or ovipositor. It might be long and thin or short and stout, but it always had incredible penetrating power.
And if the ichneumon fly could bore into trees, seek and find its hidden, helpless prey, might not Xeno have penetrated the plane? If that were true, the Xeno’s ovipositor would be measured in meters, and Xeno itself could be a great deal bigger than man.
Freedman rejected that theory. There was always some correlation between the fully grown specimen and the egg at the point of hatching. Again he thought how vital it was to recover a newborn Xeno.
In any case, an insect’s size was limited by the relative inefficiency of its respiratory system. All insects had breathing tubes — spiracles — of one sort or another; and these simply could not extract enough oxygen to support a creature the size of a cat, let alone a man. None of them had lungs, thank god.
But did Xeno bridge that gap? If so, then in theory it could be bigger than a man. It could be any size, until some other limiting factor stepped in. Imagine a wasp the size of a man. The sheer mass of the abdomen — the lungs would certainly develop there — would be so great that the damned thing would break at its slender thorax the first time it tried to pull a high-g turn.
He’d tell Malin he didn’t believe implantation had been done from outside the plane. He’d tell him …
The book slipped unnoticed from his hand and Freedman slept. With his open mouth, his beak-like nose, and the light reflected in his glasses, he looked very much like one of his imagined insects.
*
The insistent trilling of the phone woke him. Rubbing a stiff neck, he got up and crossed the room to answer.
“Freedman.” Yawning, he glanced at the clock; not yet seven in the morning. “Sure … I’ll be tied up at the county hospital until after lunch. Be back here at four … Right.”
Further sleep was out of the question. He picked up the book, stared speculatively at the photograph of the ichneumon fly, resisted the impulse to continue reading, and shuffled off to placate his wife with a cup of coffee.
*
Across town, less than half a mile away, Jaimie Scott was also up and about. Mark had calmed him down somewhat; but he had spent a restless night, his professional mind filled with a mixture of foreboding and deep concern for Shane. Freedman was well satisfied with Jaimie’s development as a doctor; but aside from that, Jaimie was young, naive — and hopelessly in love for the first time in his life.
While shaving, showering, and dressing, he tried repeatedly to think of a good excuse to call Shane without exciting her fears or her aunt’s suspicions. Invention failed him. For a while he stood by the window, drinking the cup of coffee that passed for breakfast, gazing out at what promised to be a beautiful June morning. Already the climbing sun was burning away the mist that lay in the hollow.
Abdera Hollow would never win a prize for outstanding beauty, but the view from Scott’s second-floor window was by no means bad. He lived in a house perched on the rim of the hollow. Abdera had a certain charm, especially now, when the trees were in full foliage, half submerging the red roofs and white walls in a green sea, hiding the imperfections — the vacant lots, the occasional derelict building. The natives might find the town low on excitement, but for a city-dweller’s vacation — his short vacation — Abdera could be highly restful.
But Jaimie had no eyes for the scenery. He stared at the ridge of a roof on the far side of Main Street — Shane’s roof, which sheltered all his hopes for joy and fears of the unknown.
With Mark away on his biweekly visit to the county hospital, Jaimie had plenty to occupy him during the morning. If Shane was okay, he knew she’d be off for an interview for a hotel job; no point in phoning before noon.
Twenty kilometers away at the hospital, Freedman was equally busy. Like his junior partner, he too had his fears, but his older, more disciplined mind held them under better control. Each patient he visited got his full attention, but as he moved from room to room he speculated briefly on the purpose of Malin’s coming visit. Malin had said nothing, but the urgency in his voice had been unmistakable.
Unlike Jaimie, he noted with pleasure the
brilliance of the day. The small, modern hospital was flooded with sunlight, giving a lift to all inside. Even that battle-ax of a head nurse smiled and said hello.
Freedman would remember that morning. Even he, cautious and alert, had no inkling of the change that was coming, of the terror that would soon descend upon his community.
XX.
It began as he drove slowly back to Abdera. Well ahead of schedule, he pulled off the road at a favorite lakeside spot; he would allow himself a ten-minute break, watching the waterfowl. He found a mallard particularly handsome. The drake’s brilliant bottle-green head pleased him; soon that vivid color would be lost in the summer molt.
Mark was scarcely three paces from the car when the phone buzzed. “Goddam!” Still watching the duck, he answered.
The pleasure of the day, his preoccupation with the duck, abruptly vanished. Scott was calling from Shane’s house. He’d phoned, not liked the answer he got, and gone over to see her. As casually as he could, aware the aunt could be listening, he said, “I’d be glad if you dropped by on your way back.” Freedman agreed and drove off quickly, suddenly pressed for time. Two men wanted him urgently, Malin and Scott. Neither had explained why.
So, in a bedroom incongruously bright with sunlight, Freedman saw his first Xeno victim. She lay sleeping, outwardly a normal, healthy young woman. But, as Scott explained, with the exception of a short half hour of dreamy consciousness, she had slept solidly for twenty hours, and on her arm a slight swelling had appeared. She stirred as Mark examined her, but showed no signs of coming to. He straightened up, glancing at his watch. In thirty minutes Malin would arrive.
“What’s wrong with Shane, doctor?” asked the aunt anxiously. Freedman shook his head. “It’s too early to say. A thorough examination and tests will have to be made. I’ll arrange an ambulance.”
“You mean she’s got to go into the hospital?” said the woman in growing alarm. “It’s not serious, is it? I mean, she’s going to be okay?” She cast around for a comforting answer. “Maybe it’s this weather; this heat takes it outa you.” She laughed unconvincingly. “I’ve only been up myself for a couple of hours, but it feels like the day’s been going on forever — and Shane’s a growing girl.” She yawned, emphasizing her point.