Calhoun stared.
“You couldn’t possibly be proved to be a Darian, then?”
She shook her head. Calhoun remembered, and started the coffee-maker.
“When you left Dara,” he said, “You were carried a long, long way, to some planet where they’d practically never heard of Dara, and where the name meant nothing. You could have settled there, or anywhere else and forgotten about Dara. But you didn’t. Why not, since you’re not a blueskin?”
“But I am!” she said fiercely. “My parents, my brothers and sisters, and Korvan—.”
Then she bit her lip. Calhoun took note but did not comment on the name that she had mentioned.
“Then your parents had the splotches fade, so you never had them,” he said absorbedly. “Something like that happened on Tralee, once! There’s a virus—a whole group of virus particles! Normally we humans are immune to them. One has to be in terrifically bad physical condition for them to take hold and produce whatever effects they do. But once they’re established they’re passed on from mother to child.… And when they die out it’s during childhood, too!”
He poured coffee for the two of them. As usual, Murgatroyd swung down to the floor and said impatiently;
“Chee! Chee! Chee!”
Calhoun absently filled Murgatroyd’s tiny cup and handed it to him.
“But this is marvellous!” he said exuberantly. “The blue patches appeared after the plague, didn’t they? After people recovered—when they recovered?”
* * * *
Maril stared at him. His mind was filled with strictly professional considerations. He was not talking to her as a person. She was purely a source of information.
“So I’m told,” said Maril reservedly. “Are there any more humiliating questions you want to ask?”
He gaped at her. Then he said ruefully;
“I’m stupid, Maril, but you’re touchy. There’s nothing personal.”
“There is to me!” she said fiercely. “I was born among blueskins, and they’re of my blood, and they’re hated and I’d have been killed on Weald if I’d been known as—what I am! And there’s Korvan, who arranged for me to be sent away as a spy and advised me to do just what you said,—abandon my home world and everybody I care about! Including him! It’s personal to me!”
Calhoun wrinkled his forehead helplessly.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “Drink your coffee!”
“I don’t want it,” she said bitterly. “I’d like to die!”
“If you stay around where I am,” Calhoun told her, “you may get your wish. All right. There’ll be no more questions, I promise.”
She turned and moved toward the door to the sleeping-cabin. Calhoun looked after her.
“Maril,” he called out to her.
“What?”
“Why were you crying?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” she said evenly.
Calhoun shrugged his shoulders almost up to his ears. He was a professional man. In his profession he was not incompetent. But there is no profession in which a really competent man tries to understand women. Calhoun annoyedly had to let fate or chance or disaster take care of Maril’s personal problems. He had larger matters to cope with.
But he had something to work on, now. He hunted busily in the reference tapes. He came up with an explicit collection of information on exactly the subject he needed. He left the control-room to go down into the storage areas of the Med Ship’s hull. He found an ultra-frigid storage box, whose contents were kept at the temperature of liquid air. He donned thick gloves, used a special set of tongs, and extracted a tiny block of plastic in which a sealed-tight phial of glass was embedded. It frosted instantly he took it out, and when the storage-box was closed again the block was covered with a thick and opaque coating of frozen moisture.
He went back to the control-room and pulled down the panel which made available a small-scale but surprisingly adequate biological laboratory. He set the plastic block in a container which would raise it very, very gradually to a specific temperature and hold it there. It was, obviously, a living culture from which any imaginable quantity of the same culture could be bred. Calhoun set the apparatus with great exactitude.
“This,” he told Murgatroyd, “may be a good day’s work. Now I think I can rest.”
Then, for a long while, there was no sound or movement in the Med Ship. The girl Maril may have slept, or maybe not. Calhoun lay relaxed in a chair which at the touch of a button became the most comfortable of sleeping-places. Murgatroyd remained in his cubbyhole, his tail curled over his nose. There were comforting, unheard, easily dismissable murmurings now and again. They kept the feeling of life alive in the ship. But for such infinitesimal stirrings of sound—carefully recorded for this exact purpose—the feel of the ship would have been that of a tomb.
But it was quite otherwise when another ship-day began with the taped sounds of morning activities as faint as echoes but nevertheless establishing an atmosphere of their own.
* * * *
Calhoun examined the plastic block and its contents. He read the instruments which had cared for it while he slept. He put the block—no longer frosted—in the culture-microscope and saw its enclosed, infinitesimal particles of life in the process of multiplying on the food that had been frozen with them when they were reduced to the spore condition. He beamed. He replaced the block in the incubation oven and faced the day cheerfully.
Maril greeted him with great reserve. They breakfasted.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Maril evenly. “I think I can get you a hearing for—whatever ideas you may have to help Dara.”
“Kind of you,” murmured Calhoun. “May I ask whose influence you’ll exert?”
“There’s a man,” said Maril reservedly, “who—thinks a great deal of me. I don’t know his present official position, but he was certain to become prominent. I’ll tell him how you’ve acted up to now, and your attitude, and of course that you’re Med Service. He’ll be glad to help you, I’m sure.”
“Splendid!” said Calhoun, nodding. “That will be Korvan.”
She started.
“How did you know?”
“Intuition,” said Calhoun drily. “All right. I’ll count on him.”
But he did not. He worked in the tiny biological lab all that ship-day and all the next. The girl remained quiet.
On the ship-day after, the time for breakfast approached. And while the ship was practically a world all by itself, it was easy to look forward with confidence to the future. But when contact and—in a fashion—conflict with other and larger worlds loomed nearer, prospects seemed less bright. Calhoun had definite plans, now, but there were so many ways in which they could be frustrated! Weald’s political leaders could not oppose hysterical demands for action against blueskins, after a deathship arrived with no signs whatever of blueskins as responsible for its cargo of corpses. It was certain that a starving Dara would tend to desperate and fatal measures against hereditary enemies.
Calhoun sat down at the control-board and watched the clock.
“I’ve got things lined up,” he told Maril wrily, “if only they work out. If I can make somebody on Dara listen and follow my advice and if Weald doesn’t get ideas and isn’t doing what I suspect it is, maybe something can be done.”
“I’m sure you’ll do your best,” said Maril politely.
Calhoun managed to grin. He watched the ship-clock. There was no sensation attached to overdrive travel except at the beginning and the end. It was now time for the end. He might find that absolutely anything had happened while he made plans which would immediately be seen to be hopeless. Weald could have sent ships to Dara, or Dara might be in such a state of desperation that…
As it turned out, Dara was desperate. The Med Ship came out nearly a light-month from the sun about which the planet Dara revolved. Calhoun went into a short hop toward it. Then Dara was on the other side of the blazing yellow star. It took time to reach it.
He called down, identifying himself and the ship and asking for coördinates so his ship could be brought to ground. There was confusion, as if the request were so unusual that the answers were not ready. The grid, too, was on the planet’s night side. Presently the ship was locked onto by the grid’s force-fields. It went downward without incident.
Calhoun saw that Maril sat tensely, twisting her fingers within each other, until the ship actually touched ground.
Then he opened the exit-port, and faced armed men in the darkness, with blast-rifles trained on him. There was a portable cannon trained on the Med Ship itself.
“Come out!” rasped a voice. “If you try anything you get blasted! Your ship and its contents are seized by the planetary government!”
CHAPTER 5
It seemed that the smell of hunger was in the air. The armed men were cadaverous. Lights came on, and stark, harsh shadows lay black upon the ground. Calhoun’s captors were uniformed, but the uniforms hung loosely upon them. Where the lights struck upon their faces, their cheeks were hollow. They were emaciated. And there were the splotches of pigment of which Calhoun had heard. The leader of the truculent group was blue, except for two fingers which in the glaring illumination seemed whiter than white.
“Out!” said that man savagely. “We’re taking over your stock of food. You’ll get your share of it, like everybody else, but—out!”
Maril spoke over Calhoun’s shoulder. She uttered a cryptic sentence or two. It should have amounted to identification, but there was skepticism in the the armed party.
“Oh, you’re one of us, eh?” said the guard-leader sardonically. “You’ll have a chance to prove that! Come out of there!”
Calhoun spoke abruptly;
“This is a Med Ship,” he said. “There are medicines and bacterial cultures, inside it. They shouldn’t be meddled with. Here on Dara you’ve had enough of plagues!”
The man with the blue hand said as sardonically as before;
“I said the government was taking over your ship! It won’t be looted. But you’re not taking a full cargo of food away! In fact, it’s not likely you’re leaving!”
“I want to speak to someone in authority,” snapped Calhoun. “We’ve just come from Weald.” He felt bristling hatred all about him as he named Weald. “There’s tumult there. They’re talking about dropping fusion bombs here. It’s important that I talk to somebody with the authority to take a few sensible precautions!”
He descended to the ground. There was a panicky “Chee! Chee!” from behind him, and Murgatroyd came dashing to swarm up his body and cling apprehensively to his neck.
“What’s that?”
“A tormal,” said Calhoun. “He’s not a pet. Your medical men will know something about him. This is a Med Ship and I’m a Med Ship man, and he’s an important member of the crew. He’s a Med Ship tormal and he stays with me!”
The man with the blue hand said harshly;
“There’s somebody waiting to ask you questions. Here!”
A ground-car came rolling out from the side of the landing-grid enclosure. The ground-car ran on wheels, and wheels were not much used on modern worlds. Dara was behind the times in more ways than one.
“This car will take you to Defense and you can tell them anything you want. But don’t try to sneak back in this ship! It’ll be guarded!”
The ground-car was enclosed, with room for a driver and the three from the Med Ship. But armed men festooned themselves about its exterior and it went bumping and rolling to the massive ground-layer girders of the grid. It rolled out under them and there was paved highway. It picked up speed.
There were buildings on either side of the road, but few showed lights. This was night-time, and the men at the landing-grid had set a pattern of hunger, so that the silence and the dark buildings did not seem a sign of tranquility and sleep, but of exhaustion and despair. The highway lamps were few, by comparison with other inhabited worlds, and the ground-car needed lights of its own to guide its driver over a paved surface that needed repair. By those moving lights other depressing things could be seen. Untidiness. Buildings not kept up to perfection. Evidences of apathy. The road hadn’t been cleaned lately. There was litter here and there.
Even the fact that there were no stars added to the feeling of wretchedness and gloom and—ultimately—of hunger.
Maril spoke nervously to the driver.
“The famine isn’t any better?”
He moved his head in negation, but did not speak.
“I left—two years ago,” said Maril. “It was just beginning then. Rationing hadn’t started then—.”
The driver said evenly;
“There’s rationing now!”
* * * *
The car went on and on. A vast open space appeared ahead. Lights about its perimeter seemed few and pale.
“E-everything seems—worse. Even the lights.”
“Using all the power,” said the driver, “to warm up ground to grow crops where it ought to be winter. Not doing too well, either.”
Calhoun knew, somehow, that Maril moistened her lips.
“I—was sent,” she explained to the driver, “to go ashore on Trent and then make my way to Weald. I—mailed reports of what I found out back to Trent. Somebody got them back to here whenever—it was possible.”
The driver said;
“Everybody knows the man on Trent disappeared. Maybe he got caught, maybe somebody saw him without makeup. Or maybe he just quit being one of us. What’s the difference? No use!”
Calhoun found himself wincing a little. The driver was not angry. He was hopeless. But men should not despair. They shouldn’t accept hostility from those about them as a device of fate for their destruction. They shouldn’t…
Maril said quickly to him;
“You understand? Dara’s a heavy-metals planet. There aren’t many light elements in our soil. Potassium is scarce. So our ground isn’t very fertile. Before the Plague we traded heavy metals and manufactures for imports of food and potash. But since the Plague we’ve had no off-planet commerce. We’ve been—quarantined.”
“I gathered as much,” said Calhoun. “It was up to Med Service to see that that didn’t happen. It’s up to Med Service now to see that it stops.”
“Too late now for anything,” said the driver, “whatever Med Service may be! They’re talking about cutting down our population so there’ll be food enough for some to live. There are two questions about it: who’s to be kept alive and why.”
The ground-car aimed now for a cluster of faintly brighter lights on the far side of the great open space. They enlarged as they grew nearer. Maril said hesitantly;
“There was someone—Korvan—”Calhoun didn’t catch the rest of the name, Maril said hesitantly; “He was working on food-plants. I—thought he might accomplish something…”
The driver said caustically;
“Sure! Everybody’s heard about him! He came up with a wonderful thing! He and his outfit worked out a way to process weeds so they can be eaten. And they can. You can fill your belly and not feel hungry, but it’s like eating hay. You starve just the same. He’s still working. Head of a government division.”
The ground-car passed through a gate. It stopped before a lighted door. The armed men hanging to its outside dropped off. They watched Calhoun closely as he stepped out with Murgatroyd riding on his shoulder.
Minutes later they faced a hastily-summoned group of officials of the Darian government. For a ship to land on Dara was so remarkable an event that it called practically for a cabinet meeting. And Calhoun noted that they were no better fed than the guards at the space-port.
They regarded Calhoun and Maril with oddly burning eyes. It was, of course, because the two of them showed no signs of hunger. They obviously had not been on short rations.
“My name is Calhoun,” said Calhoun briskly. “I’ve the usual Med Service credentials. Now…”
He did not wait to be questioned. He told them of the
appalling state of things in the Twelfth Sector of the Med Service, so that men had been borrowed from other sectors to remedy the intolerable, and he was one of them. He told of his arrival at Weald and what had happened there, from the excessively cautious insistence that he prove he was not a Darian, to the arrival of the death-ship from Orede. He was giving them the news affecting them, as they had not heard it before.
He went on to tell of his stop at Orede and his purpose, and his encounter with the men he found there. When he finished there was silence. He broke it.
“Now,” he said, “Maril’s an agent of yours. She can add to what I’ve told you. I’m Med Service. I have a job to do here to repair what wasn’t done before. I should make a planetary health inspection and make recommendations for the improvement of the state of things. I’ll be glad if you’ll arrange for me to talk to your health officials. Things look bad, and something should be done.”
Someone laughed without mirth.
“What will you recommend for long-continued undernourishment?” he asked derisively. “That’s our health problem!”
“I recommend food,” said Calhoun.
“Where’ll you fill the prescription?”
“I’ve the answer to that, too,” said Calhoun curtly. “I’ll want to talk to any space-pilots you’ve got. Get your astrogators together and I think they’ll approve my idea.”
The silence was totally skeptical.
“Orede…”
“Not Orede,” said Calhoun. “Weald will be hunting that planet over for Darians. If they find any, they’ll drop bombs here.”
“Our only space-pilots,” said a tall man, presently, “are on Orede now. If you’ve told the truth, they’ll probably head back because of your warning. They should bring meat.”
His mouth worked peculiarly, and Calhoun knew that it was at the thought of food.
“Which,” said another man sharply, “goes to the hospitals! I haven’t tasted meat in two years!”
“Nobody has,” growled another man still. “But here’s this man Calhoun. I’m not convinced he can work magic, but we can find out if he lies. Put a guard on his ship. Otherwise let our health men give him his head. They’ll find out if he’s from this Medical Service he tells of! And this Maril—”
The Murray Leinster Megapack Page 192