Famine

by John Creasey

  “Thank the President and tell him I hope to leave London before midnight.”

  “He will be very glad,” Taza said, and as Palfrey moved towards the door, he added, “Dr. Palfrey, what happened at the Embassy today was without my knowledge. I am sorry.”

  So he admitted having some control over the cat men.

  There was so much to do, quickly. Arrange the aircraft, decide who was to fly with him to Lozan; have the Lozanian Embassy cordoned off and all of its visitors screened, the staff watched and followed; leave instructions for other embassies to be closely watched too. Leave instructions for summaries of the reports to be sent to him …

  And there was Professor Copuscenti to see.

  The Professor was afraid.

  This man with the noble face, the near-Socratic calm and objectivity, this man whose intellectual brilliance was laced with ironic wit which so often earned him disrepute, this man who could conceive of the destruction of the human race with a Jove-like detachment, was nervous and afraid. His hand was warm and moist; his lips were twitching. It was almost as if he were suffering from the effects of a stroke. He was with Walsh in a small room with lead walls, off the main laboratory at Z5’s headquarters. Never still, he moved from chair to chair, and desk to chair incessantly, while Walsh, a small, compact man with a clipped moustache and pointed beard, sat near, still hardly blinking.

  “I’ve told no one yet,” he stated. “No one. But these creatures—my God, how does one understand? How does one talk of the impossible. Come.” He marched out of the room towards a bench where what was left of one of the creatures was lying. It was inside a glass container of a kind Palfrey recognised; it gave him his first shock, although Copuscenti’s manner should have warned him. Atomic reactors were customarily kept inside such boxes. Over by the wall were other boxes, containing the shapeless remains of ordinary men; and of the ‘rabbit’ and ‘cat’ men.

  Copuscenti handed Palfrey a pair of thick rubber gloves. As Palfrey drew them on, the other put a pair of lead-coated manipulators in his hand. In their jaws was a tiny Geiger counter. None of this was new to Palfrey but never had he felt so appalled as he did now.

  “Go on.” Copuscenti ordered raspingly.

  Palfrey began to manipulate the Geiger counter, and, as it hovered above the mangled flesh and blood, a cracking sound came so sharply and suddenly that although he had expected it, Palfrey drew back.

  “You see,” Copuscenti muttered. “The blood is radioactive to a degree I have seldom known except in reactors themselves. I have examined men and women who have been subjected to radiation during a nuclear explosion. I was one of the first men in Nagasaki after the bomb was dropped. Few of the bodies I examined were so radioactive as these remains.”

  Palfrey’s throat felt hot and dry.

  “And there’s no doubt?” he asked.

  “None at all. The blood is radioactive to an alarming degree, and yet—” He gulped, and his lips were working. “Understand me, Palfrey. Anyone who touched that blood would suffer from the most acute wasting disease – a malignancy I cannot explain in terms of radioactivity. Walsh here —” Copuscenti turned almost despairingly to the other man—”has terrified me.”

  Walsh, the toxicologist ? Palfrey, puzzled until then by Copuscenti’s fear, began to understand; and his own earlier doubts of the significance of the radioactivity were strengthened.

  Walsh had a hard voice and a clipped way of speaking.

  “I don’t know what it is, Dr. Palfrey. I do know that the tissues of these—ah—things contain a substance that accounts for their phenomenal rate of growth. Phenomenal. I have dissected and analysed these tissues. They are, by human standards, malignant. Cancerous. And humans are vulnerable to this condition. One of my assistants has just died – three days after being infected by a creature’s blood entering through a scratch on his finger. A second assistant is dying.”

  “Now you see why I am terrified,” Copuscenti muttered.

  Palfrey felt as if he were made of ice.

  “I doubt if anyone who actually touched the blood could survive for more than a day or so,” Dr. Walsh went on. “Whether it affects the atmosphere so that it can spread its poisonous effect widely, I don’t yet know. There are indications that it does not, also indications that the skin of the creatures might be insulated so that there is no danger until the blood is spilt. I do not say this is so; only that it might be.”

  “Dreadful!” Copuscenti said.

  Palfrey pulled the Geiger counter away, and the rattling stopped.

  “Go on,” he said flatly.

  “The blood of the two people whom Walsh and I examined at Salisbury shows advanced stages of leukaemia, or blood cancer. One of them, your agent Anderson, recently underwent a routine medical examination in which a blood test was carried out. I have seen the report. There was no sign of leukaemia, nothing to suggest anything abnormal in his blood condition. The general health of the farmer who died was known to be excellent.

  Palfrey’s voice hardly sounded.

  “Yes?”

  “We have just finished a preliminary examination of the blood of two victims of the latest attack,” Copuscenti went on. “There’s evidence of leukaemia – very thin blood indeed. We are having hourly examinations made, and can report that the condition of the blood deteriorated rapidly in the first hour. I think you must accept that these animals cause a form of leukaemia when they poison human beings. The poison appears also to be secreted under the nails or the tips of the fingers, and can be injected through the talons.

  “It is hideous—hideous. Far worse than smallpox or the bubonic plague.”

  “There is infinitely less chance of survival,” Walsh went on. “This could develop into a world-wide epidemic which would create conditions even worse than those of nuclear explosion. I am not exaggerating, Dr. Palfrey. A scratch from those creatures does cause acute leukaemia. So does contact with their blood. And there appear to be great numbers of them.”

  Palfrey said stiffly: “I think there are.”

  “How many? Hundreds? Thousands?” demanded Copuscenti.

  Palfrey thought: “There could be millions.” He waved a hand. “We’re trying to find out.”

  “Palfrey—I know of no defence against them,” Copuscenti said.

  “There is none,” Walsh put in. “It is possible that infection can come by breathing in a few living cells from the creatures. Such people as you and I, with medical knowledge, can protect ourselves. The man in the street could not.”

  “I realise that,” Palfrey said, stiffly. “If we attack them and cause bleeding, then the infection could begin, at once.”

  “Yes. And is deadly.”

  After a long time, Palfrey said almost in a sigh: “Gas.”

  “First find the creatures. We must know how many there are, Palfrey!” Copuscenti clenched his fists and glared, as if Palfrey were refusing to do what was so obviously necessary. “What plans have you?”

  Palfrey thought: if he’s so distraught, can he be objective enough to come with me to Lozania? And he thought: where did they come from? What created them? He looked dispassionately into Copuscenti’s eyes.

  “If we can find from where they originate, then we might stop them.”

  “At the source, you mean.” Copuscenti said. “At source, perhaps.” He closed his eyes and moved back a pace, and when he spoke again it was in a very different tone. “You shame me, Palfrey. I was so shocked, I felt as if I were going mad. But you are right. Where do they come from? They have human characteristics and human intelligence, Miss Morgan tells me. They are in the shape of humans. I have discussed this at some length with Dr. Campson, who confirms the anatomical closeness as we know them to human beings. Find where they come from, and perhaps you can stop them – but suppose they come from one of the other planets. We c
an now send our intelligent creatures through space. So it is no longer absurd to consider the possibility of intelligent human beings coming to us through space. What protection is there against such a contingency? Answer me that.”

  Very slowly Palfrey said. “Let’s worry about that when we know for certain they don’t come from somewhere on earth. I would like you to come with me to Lozania because …”

  Copuscenti listened, and finally he said: “Of course, I will come. I will have a little rest, and be ready whenever you wish. I shall want Dr. Walsh with me, if that is possible.”

  “Of course,” Palfrey said.

  “Thank you.” Copuscenti actually smiled, more relaxed than he had been throughout the interview. Walsh nodded, jerkily. “You are good for me, Dr. Palfrey,” went on the Professor. “You have a most calming effect. I think a discussion with you at least once a week would be the best therapy conceivable for me.” He went to the door with Walsh, and unexpectedly shook hands with Palfrey.

  Calming, thought Palfrey. Therapy.

  As he went to his office, the full significance of everything the Professor and Dr. Walsh had said, swept over him. By the time he reached his desk, he was quivering with a physical reaction, and could hardly control the muscles of his mouth. He dropped into his chair, shivering. His forehead was damp with sweat, his whole body seemed to be drained of blood.

  Drained of blood, as if he were suffering from leukaemia.

  He buried his face in his hands, and was still like that when the door opened, and Joyce Morgan came in. He was aware of her, but did not look up, until he heard the door close. She had gone. He knew that she must be feeling much as he had felt when confronted with Copuscenti’s first reaction. Her coming and going did a little to draw him out of his mood of shocked despair. He had given instructions before going to the laboratory, and she had put some notes on his desk. Everything was in hand; the aircraft had been laid on, there was an appointment with the British Prime Minister at ten o’clock before he left for the airport. An analysis of the reports from Z5 agents was there, too.

  He began to study this, his mind working again, but he was aware that he was working at half-pressure. The news, added to what had already happened, had bruised his mind, so that he had lost the power of concentration which had set him apart from most men for so long.

  There were forty-two reports from twenty-nine countries.

  In twenty-two countries there were acute food shortages, caused almost without exception by losses ascribed to rats. Throughout the world, food storage warehouses and barns which had been untouched for months were being opened, and thousands of them were found empty – the grain and in other staple diets eaten by scavenging hordes. Every report seemed to tear savagely into Palfrey’s screaming nerves. Such quantities of food would not have disappeared unless there had been enormous numbers of the creatures feeding off it.

  Millions, many millions. He turned a page in the report and saw a typewritten note signed: ‘A. J. Kent.’ Kent was the best mathematician in Z5, and the code and cypher expert. His note read:

  The skin of the creatures is very thin, and the ratio of the skin area to the stomach volume is five times greater than ours. They eat five times more than we do in relation to their size. Using this basis, and by totalling the amount of food consumed by them as far as we know, I estimate that at least five million are in existence. There could be a hundred million.

  Palfrey closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, so despairing that he could not think. The door opened again and he thought it was Joyce, and didn’t immediately open his eyes. He heard her approach, and then suddenly heard her voice.

  “Are you tired, Dr. Palfrey?”

  It was Beth Fordham.

  Chapter Twelve

  These Creatures Multiply

  Palfrey was startled for a moment, and his heart missed a beat. Then he said: “Beth” in a whisper only he could hear. She stood in front of him with that half-smile, a Mona Lisa kind of inscrutability, and did not seem to notice that he had said ‘Beth’ not ‘Betty’. She was calm and rested – tiredness did not seem to affect her. She wore a suit, with a high collar, the cuffs low over her hands; he had no doubt that she had taken these precautions against the rabbit men.

  “Yes,” Palfrey said at last. “And I can’t afford to be tired.”

  “You can afford to rest,” she retorted.

  Rest, he thought bitterly. How could one rest with so much on one’s mind?

  “You must rest,” she went on, “or you’ll crack up, and that won’t help anybody.”

  He didn’t answer at first, it was such a trite thing to say. Yet it was true, too, and her smile had a soothing effect. He was on the point of asking how she had got here when he changed his mind, and said: “Wait here a moment, will you?”

  He went outside. A tall, red-haired agent who was always available as a messenger, stood aside. As the door closed, Palfrey touched a one-way window in the passage; he could see exactly what ‘Beth’ was doing. Why did he think of her as Beth? He went into Joyce’s office, and as that door closed, asked sharply, “How did Mrs. Fordham get into my office?”

  “I sent her in,” Joyce answered.

  “She hasn’t been approved yet. That was folly.”

  “Perhaps it was,” Joyce conceded. She stood up from her desk. As always she seemed taller than he expected. “Sap, you looked dreadful when I came in.”

  “I felt dreadful.”

  “You looked nearly as bad this morning.”

  “Must I put on a mask for you?”

  Joyce said quietly: “Sap, a year ago it would have hurt me terribly if you’d talked like that, but it doesn’t now. I know you, and you know that I’ve been in love with you for a long time. I think I’ve come to know what you need. I really do.”

  Only half-mollified, Palfrey said, “You fuss over me as if I were a pet dog.”

  “Perhaps I do.” She was determined to be conciliatory. “Sap, please listen to me. I’ve never known you so affected by a case. You sensed the magnitude of it from the beginning – you have this awful prescience. And it’s done something to you. It’s sapped a lot of your strength, you must know that.”

  How well he knew it!

  “Yet you’ve never needed all your strength and single-mindedness as you do now.” Joyce continued. “As we do now.”

  Palfrey asked more quietly: “What has all this to do with Mrs. Fordham?”

  “A great deal,” Joyce said. “I was startled to see you so relaxed when you came back from her this morning. It didn’t last long, but it was astonishing. Mrs. Fordham did something to you, actually gave you back some of the strength you’d lost. Didn’t you sense that?”

  He had indeed, but could he admit it now? Wasn’t it absurd to believe that he could draw strength from a woman whom he had known for only a few hours? He began to coil strands of hair about his forefinger and slowly his lips curved in a smile.

  “I suppose I did,” he said. “But she’s still a grave security risk.”

  “You’ll be a bigger one, if you can’t stand up to the strain. And it’s going to get worse. Sap …” Joyce rounded the desk and came towards him taking his hands; she was very close and very attractive in her earnestness. “The last thing I want is for you to find comfort with another woman. I always hoped it would be with me. But I know now, it won’t be. Take her with you to Lozan. If you do, you may be able to rest on the flight, instead of sleeping under drugs which take the edge off your mind. You need natural sleep, natural relaxation. Take her with you.” When he didn’t answer, Joyce went on: “She isn’t such a big security risk. All the inquiries we’ve made are in her favour. If she were being considered as an agent, we would feel by now she would be all right. Even Armitage’s report is good.”

  “How well does he know her?”

 
“He lunched with her,” Joyce said simply. “And I spent an hour with her, too. Tig said he thought she was as good as bread.”

  Palfrey almost exclaimed aloud.

  “And if you want to know more about her, here’s the report so far,” Joyce went on. “She’s forty-four, one of five children of a Devonshire farmer, who made a lot of money. She was educated at Malvem College for Girls and a year at the Sorbonne in Paris. She was going to read philosophy and economics at Girton, but her mother fell ill, and she stayed at home, housekeeping, for two years. That was when she met David Fordham. The reports say it was a love match. There were two children. One died of poliomyelitis, the other was drowned in a boating accident. All of her sisters and brothers are alive, married, and as far as we can tell from a quick check, highly reputable. One solicitor, one farmer, one shopkeeper’s wife, one a parson’s wife. All of them live in the South-West.”

  Joyce stopped, and drew back.

  Palfrey laughed; and it was a long time since he had felt like laughing.

  “Will you take her?” Joyce asked eagerly.

  “Yes,” Palfrey answered. “I’ll give your amateur psychiatry a chance.” His eyes shone. “In any case I like her!”

  “That’s why I think she’ll be good for you,” Joyce Morgan said.

  Palfrey laughed again.

  Yet as he left Joyce’s office, he sobered up at once, with a new and different kind of problem; how to tell Beth Fordham why he wanted to take her to Lozan? She had offered, in fact begged to help, but this was hardly what she had asked to be – a course in therapy for Stanislaus Alexander Palfrey. He laughed again, and turned to the messenger.

  “Anything?”

  “She took a book down from the right-hand case, and has been looking through it. She didn’t go nearer your desk.”

  “All right, thanks.” Palfrey went in, and immediately Betty Fordham looked up, with a slightly preoccupied air, as if suddenly she wondered where she was.