by D. F. Jones
Still, not all the news was bad. Freedman showed signs of a remarkably fast recovery; respiration, pulse, color, all had improved. Right now young Scott — who’d done a fine job getting the specimen — was back with Freedman and this girl he was so keen on, keeping them company while he drained his second large medicinal brandy.
The specimen. He and Jaimie had raised the lid just long enough to satisfy themselves that the thing was dead. It was certainly that, floating upside down, legs spread, horrific even in death. They had searched the hospital, every room, every cupboard, but had found nothing. Where the hell had these awful things gone? Still, that was another problem, and not his.
What other good news? Well, any minute now, the fresh doctors and nurses they desperately needed were due to arrive.
He looked down the driveway. Judging by the flashlights and the crunch of boots on gravel, the whole place was crawling with FBI men.
Crawling …
He shivered again; this time the action had nothing to do with his thin clothing.
XXIII.
“And how about the rest?” said the President.
“All non-Abderans are accounted for, sir. The pilot’s in the hospital in Frankfurt; the copilot likewise in India. A stewardess is hospitalized in Georgia. All the rest, except the Louisiana family, are in the ICARUS hospital.”
“And the family?”
“Not so good, sir. A highway patrol report just in before I left said a camper had been found off the road east of Baton Rouge. Two adults in a coma and three kids, two of them dead. It has to be them.” Arcasso hesitated. “Anyway, I’m working on that assumption and have ordered their transportation, alive or dead, to the ICARUS hospital.”
The third figure in the Oval Office spoke. “Any news break?”
“The local FBI is handling it, Mr. Secretary,” began Arcasso, “down there it’s just another accident — ”
Erwin Lord shook his head. “I mean the bigger boys.”
The President interrupted. “Don’t underrate the locals. So far we’ve kept the press off the scent, but if the story breaks anywhere, there’ll be no holding press or TV. And I’m afraid it’s breaking.”
Lord retained his Abe Lincoln pose, arms relaxed on the sides of his chair. He raised one eyebrow. “There are times when I envy our — my — Soviet colleague.”
The President frowned. At times his S of S was an affected bastard. The irony was that it was completely unnecessary. Lord could run rings around him as a brain, but he lacked the intangibles a top man needed: magnetism, charisma.
“But this,” Lord continued smoothly, “is not one of them. We must now fall back on our second line — the time travelers have contracted some strange sickness ‘out there.’“ He smiled cynically. “Admit that it is dangerous to them, but not to us. That will give the big thrill and no pain.”
“Obviously,” said the President edgily.
Arcasso stood up. It was nearly two P.M.; he’d been out of the operations room for almost an hour. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. President — ”
“Okay, Frank.” Knowlton nodded. “Keep me informed. I’ve canceled all today’s appointments.”
*
Freedman felt he was at the bottom of a deep tank of water, and knew he must swim up to the dimly lit surface. He struggled, but however desperately he did so, he made little headway. Yet there was progress, for the light above grew stronger. The dancing surface ceased to be water, splintering into an infinity of brilliant, blinding fragments. Unaccountably, the light was suddenly replaced by the distorted, anxious face of Jaimie. His mouth was moving but saying nothing. Suddenly a roaring sound filled his head and, just as suddenly, faded sharply. Now he could hear Jaimie. Why in God’s name was he shouting?
Scott held the twitching arms of his senior. “It’s okay, Mark. Just relax; you’re doing fine.”
Freedman shivered. He’d never realized what an ugly mess Jaimie’s face was: enlarged pores, blackheads. And his eyes: They weren’t full of innocence, they were blank. The thickest ox in creation would be ashamed to own an expression like that. And what had he been shaving with — a lawn mower?”
Scott’s face moved in and out of focus. Mark sat up, and the world spun crazily. He was aware of a hand on his back; his acute tactile sense identified four — no, five pressure points.
“You’re okay,” murmured Scott. “Take it easy, Mark.”
“For God’s sake stop shouting!” yelled Freedman.
Scott bent over his colleague, trying to catch the faint muttering. As he lowered Mark gently onto the bed, Freedman glared at him, his mouth trembling. Scott got the idea. “You want to sit up? All right. Stay right there.”
Freedman’s hands rested on his knees, his body leaning forward. Scott took a chance, released his hold, and hurriedly got an armchair alongside. He grabbed the swaying figure, lifting him from bed to chair.
For a while Freedman sat leaning forward, hands on knees, head down, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Slowly the tumult subsided, and he sat up straight.
“Where the hell are my glasses?”
Freedman’s voice was stronger but still only barely intelligible. “Sure, Mark; I’ll get ’em.”
Thank God the young fool had stopped shouting. Freedman leaned back, closing his eyes. There was something he should remember; something vitally important.
His head was pounding.
Scott returned and leaned over him, noting the improvement in his color. Freedman’s eyes opened slowly; the pupils were less contracted and reacted much better to the light.
“How are you feeling, Mark?”
Freedman took the glasses and put them on clumsily. “Better,” he said tersely. “Still feel strange, but it’s coming back to me slowly. How’s Shane?”
“Still not conscious yet, but progressing.”
Mark nodded. “Order a glass of warm milk,” he said quietly. “We’ve got to talk.” He remained silent while Scott phoned, relieved that his mind and vision were swiftly returning to normal.
“Okay, Jaimie. Sit down. It’s still tough for me to look up. What happened after I failed?” He emphasized the last word bitterly.
“Come on, Mark!” protested Scott. “You can’t blame — ”
“Forget it!” Mark retorted sharply. “I failed. Don’t waste time. Tell me what’s been going on.”
The head nurse arrived with the milk in the middle of Jaimie’s recital; one cold stare from Mark kept her silent. Modestly, Jaimie soft-pedaled his capture of the specimen, passing quickly to the current state of affairs in the hospital.
“You’ve done well, Jaimie,” said Freedman, “better than I — ”
This Scott would not let pass. “Mark, for God’s sake, be fair to yourself. I was scared as hell. It was your description that stopped me from falling apart. Without you — ” He stopped, looking away.
Both men were embarrassed. Mark had known for a long time that Jaimie had a strong streak of hero worship for him as a professional.
“You mean-just this once you actually listened to something I said?” A wry grin spread across his face.
Scott managed a strained smile. “Just this once.”
“Okay,” said Freedman, “is the lab report in? And the Xeno — what has happened there?”
“Nothing yet from the lab. As for the specimen, Slim says we need a crack biologist to tackle it. That specimen has cost us plenty, and he for one was not prepared to louse it up. As I said, we’ve got some high-priced professionals on the way.”
Mark nodded in agreement, he had no time to speak. From the bed came a low-pitched moan. Jaimie was there instantly.
“What’s goin’ on?” Shane’s voice was weak. “God — I’m thirsty.”
Mark proffered his milk. “Give her this.”
Jaimie took it, cradling Shane’s head as if it were a Ming vase. She drank and looked vaguely about her. But before she could get the questions straight in her mind, sleep reclaimed her. Scott retur
ned, satisfied that she was asleep and not in coma.
Mark appreciated the change. He said softly, “Get me out of here. Get a wheelchair and call Slim — ”
“You should get some sleep as well,” said Scott.
“The speed with which you’ve revived is amazing, but you’re still not ready — ”
“I know all that,” retorted Freedman irritably. “Go get that chair!”
*
Freedman held his meeting in the conference room. His first action was to send a new doctor with a guide to check out and collect all the time travelers left in Abdera. He then listened to a report on the patients. With two exceptions, they appeared to be recovering well, the speed varying with the age of the individual.
The lab technician gave his preliminary report. He began with a startling statement: The substance on Freedman’s glasses and Scott’s respirator was harmless.
At that Slim Lewis, a waxen-faced, brooding figure, exploded. Then how come one man had died, and Dr. Freedman here had been flattened for fourteen hours? Harmless?
Freedman took it calmly, quietly telling the technician to proceed.
“I said it is harmless; I didn’t say it was. The substance has a very short active phase … I believe that in air it oxidized, breaking down quickly into inert components. I worked back from that assumption.” He looked appealingly at Freedman, who gave him an encouraging nod. “I’m no toxicologist, but for my money this is an exotoxin, a protein. It looks like an alkaloid of some sort. I’d guess its an alkylhalide, pretty close to dimethylaniline. And there’s something else; there’s a vesicant present, a blistering agent. In the simplest terms, I think that when this stuff hits the target, the vesicant burns the skin, letting in the protein. From then on it acts like snake venom.” Looking at one of the new arrivals, he added, “This officer here agrees.”
“Colonel Featherstone; specialty, biological warfare,” the man said laconically. “I go along with that. A very efficient system; what shakes me is the speed at which this stuff breaks down.”
“Everything about Xeno is fast,” Mark observed. “At this point I’m interested in a possible antidote. You have any views, Colonel?”
“No, sir. It appears that that doctor who was attacked died before he hit the floor. The nervous system is blasted out of existence. An antidote may be technically possible, but if this toxin does act within two seconds of impact, what time is there for antidotes?”
Scott broke in. “Mark, I saw you after you’d been hit. Your eyebrow looked singed. It could be that the hairs took the main force of the burning agent. By the time the droplet hit your skin, the vesicant had lost some of its strength, took longer to open you up — and in that time the venom was already oxidizing, losing power.”
“It’s a theory,” agreed Mark. “But what counts is knowledge — and what do we know? First, we can rule out any practical antidote, so the only defense is protective clothing. Secondly, to date these creatures have only attacked when provoked. As far as the human hosts of these parasites are concerned, it’s obvious we are powerless, except in the very early stages, when surgical intervention may be effective.
“It may be best to let them go full term. In the case of this group it may be too late for action. I’ve got a feeling that all the victims who are still in Abdera will have reached or passed the crisis point already. The emergence time-frame of the Xenos in those admitted here is incredibly short.”
“You talk as if there may be more,” said the colonel.
Freedman shrugged and spoke to the technician. “Martin, I’d like to take a look at the specimen.” As the man left, Freedman glanced around the room. “Do we have a biologist who is prepared to handle the dissection?”
The colonel nodded. “Captain Koslowski of Walter Reed. Right now he’s working on the embryos.”
Martin returned with a large specimen jar, placing it on the table before Freedman, who leaned forward. “Yes,” he said softly, remembering. The rest crowded around. Only Scott held back: He’d already seen quite enough.
The creature hung tail down, the tip of the head just breaking the surface, the legs stiff and spread out, giving the illusion of claws.
“Christ Almighty!” The colonel spoke in a hushed whisper. “You mean to tell me that came out of a human?”
If Freedman felt any horror he did not show it. “Eight to ten centimeters from tip to tail, I’d say. You can hardly see them, but I observed two apertures below the eyes — see those two faint marks? I wondered if I’d dreamed that bit. Now I see I didn’t. I wish I had.”
“Rudimentary mandibles probably,” the colonel interjected. “I’d say the thing’s weapon system is the main interest; that’s really off the track.”
“Not at all,” replied Freedman. “It ejects instead of injecting, otherwise it’s similar to the scorpion — and ejection is a weapon known in nature. There’s a fish that shoots down its prey from underwater. No — concentrate on the apertures. They’re not rudimentary mandibles or sensors; the photographs will show that — Jaimie, where are the prints? I’m convinced they’re nostrils.”
Featherstone regarded him carefully. “You don’t mean spiracles, doctor?”
“No. Name one insect with spiracles in the head.”
The Army man looked alarmed. “You realize what you’re saying?”
“Damn right I do! Don’t forget, I’ve seen one of these things alive and close up! Those apertures open and shut rhythmically.” He pointed at the jar. “Look at the buoyancy of the body — that’s significant. You can bet there’ll be some sort of lung.”
“If you’re right” — the colonel frowned as he spoke — “Then these things could grow! Giant ants are strictly science fiction — all insects are limited in size by the inefficiency of their oxygen gathering. But this!”
“Exactly,” said Freedman. “And thirty to forty of these things are loose. They’re very quick, adaptable, and have a high degree of intelligence — how else could they all have escaped?” He turned his tired gaze to the window. “They’re out there, gentlemen — they’re fast, mean, and deadly. This crisis isn’t over. On the contrary, it’s just beginning!”
XXIV.
The first days after the coming of Xeno were an enormous strain on all concerned. But as the days became weeks and nothing was found and nothing happened, it seemed the danger existed only in Freedman’s mind.
Most of the patients recovered, although two more died in the hospital and five were discovered, that first morning, dead in their beds at home. All of them were old.
As Secretary Lord predicted, the world at large accepted the story that the time travelers suffered from a special noninfectious disease, painless and generally harmless unless the victim was old and had a serious heart condition. The cause, it was suggested, was prolonged exposure to “cosmic radiation,” a result of the plane’s accidental entrapment in the “chrono-spatial” experiment. Air transportation suffered for a time, but otherwise the world went on much as before. Folks forgot; UFO’s, a missing plane, little green men — what else is new?
The survivors recovered rapidly, reverting to their preflight state of health.
Shane de Byl recovered faster than most: In three days the cyst shriveled and fell away. Within a month she showed no more than a very shallow depression, the scar not much worse than a bad vaccination mark. With no great effort she put the whole affair firmly behind her and got down to the serious business of trapping the lovelorn but shy Jaimie.
The Treasury came up with another “interim” sweetener of two thousand dollars for each Papa Kilo victim, and Shane was quick to use that as a lever. Maybe, she said to Jaimie, she should use the money to get out of Abdera and set herself up in, say, New York City? This and similar ruses got Jaimie moving in the right direction: By week six of the Xenos’ time on earth she had maneuvered him into proposing. She made him sweat for twenty-four hours, then accepted. She announced that they would marry in the spring.
*
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Week six, mid-August, the summer almost spent. Already the leaves were turning color, but Freedman refused to even consider a vacation, saying he was too wrapped up in the Xeno crisis to get away. He packed his protesting family off, glad to see them go.
Three weeks earlier the last of the FBI had pulled out. The extra hospital staff had also left, having been sworn to secrecy by Malin. None had been told the full story of ICARUS, and few had seen the Xeno specimen. It had been an inexplicable nightmare for these people, best forgotten as quickly as possible — especially with the FBI leaning on them. In general the tension eased, but not for Freedman.
Malin called on him to convey the thanks of the bureau. Just as Mark began to think how nice it was of a busy guy like Malin to take the trouble, Malin added that Tatyana Marinskiya wanted to talk with him — how would it be if she dropped by? A date was fixed for the following week.
In his current mood, Mark didn’t care if she came or not — she or anyone else. His sole interest was the aliens, which he felt certain still lived. He was determined to know their origin.
The dissection of the specimen had proved him right in one respect There were two lungs, strangely joined at their posterior end. And there were other equally puzzling features about the respiratory system. The biologist and Freedman agreed: Xeno could not be classified as a true insect. Nor was it a true arthropod. Yet it had some features of both, and special characteristics of its own.
The weapon system, for example: The poison-sac and the fine discharge tube in the tail had a complicated network of powerful muscles, which evidently contracted sharply and in fixed sequence, propelling the poison on its way.
But the nastiest surprise was the eyes. They were unquestionably related to the higher earthly mammals, including man, with nothing in common with the compound lenses of the average insect. Freedman had been justified in thinking the eyes intelligent; the picture they would present to the Xeno’s brain was assessed as slightly superior to that of a dog. The implications of the discovery were not lost on the examiners: The brain, large by insect standards but tiny by mammalian, had to be good enough to process and evaluate the picture.