by Andre Norton
“How’ve you been feeding these men?” Dave wondered.
“I put a corpsman in with them, gave them processed food. Of course I haven’t gone in there. I couldn’t risk infecting Mr. Nordheimer or Janith with anything.”
Dave wheeled in the yacht’s diagnostic equipment; exquisite medical instruments which made him writhe with professional envy.
The warm odor of congestion, like an unaired gymnasium, filled his nostrils. The bunk rooms were packed to the ceiling with sweating, miserable, palpably ill men.
He examined their yellow-green skin carefully; looked long at their reddened, swollen tongues. All of them were afflicted with the same type of disease. He examined blood under the bacterioscope. No organism caused their illness; the toxemia came from the waste of their own bodies. They were weak from sheer anemia. He raised his head from the hemiglobinometer, dark fury in his eyes.
Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer was leaning against the bulkhead, oblivious to the hostile stares of the men. “Well? What do they have, Munroe?” he asked indifferently.
“Chlorosis! Simple spatial anemia. Due to lack of protein in their diet.”
“That’s what I told him,” a gray-haired spaceman muttered angrily. “Processed food is all they gave that bunch. We regulars ate good, them got nothing.”
Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer straightened abruptly. “You don’t certainly expect them to eat like Mr. Nordheimer or the officers.”
“By deep space,” the spaceman growled, “they should be fed something besides bread and vitamin tablets, even if they are working their way back to Earth.” He looked at Dave. “And we could have a doctor on this ship, too.”
Dave knew the spaceman’s knowledge of hematology had not been learned from textbooks. It had been learned the hard way; from dietary experience in deep, black space. If Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer had not been so indifferent to the health of the crew, he would have insisted that they be fed a more adequate diet; aborted the illness before it ever started. He recalled what Dr. Russell had said about the moronic mind of the Starry Maid’s medical officer.
“I want to speak to the owner,” Dave said.
“I hardly believe Mr. Nordheimer would care to speak to you,” Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer said rudely. “After all, you know he just doesn’t see anybody.”
“I’m not just anybody.” Dave’s eyes narrowed angrily. “I’m speaking for the public. I insist on seeing him.”
“The public,” Mortimer laughed scornfully. “Mr. Nordheimer is not interested in the public—”
“But I am,” Dave broke in, fury in his voice. “I’ll see him if I have to tear these bulkheads down with my bare hands.”
Dr. Mortimer stepped back at the sight of Dave’s icy, angry face. He darted a quick look at the smirking spacemen. “You public employees certainly have a hypertrophied sense of responsibility.” He tittered self-consciously at his clinical analysis. “Very well, I’ll take you to see Mr. Nordheimer, but mind you don’t expect a kind reception.” There was condescending mockery in his voice. “At least you’ll see the grand salon and that is more than most people ever do.”
Dave followed the slender doctor to the grand salon of the ship. He stopped abruptly as he stepped in. Eyes widened in unashamed, breathless wonder. Never had he seen such an impressive sight.
He was looking at the Macro-Mafintic Falls of Zaragahn, Sirius’ great planet. He recognized it from teleposters. Now he was looking at its captured reality. It was the most magnificent sight he had ever seen; unutterably breath-taking in its majestic beauty.
Mountains, glittering with snow, vanished into an illusory horizon, water from a mighty river burst forth to fall for twenty-five thousand meters into a narrow, tortuous canyon. But three-quarters of the way down, up-sweeping wind caught the watery shaft, tore it into mist, whirled it cyclonically upwards. Electrostatic charges formed on the droplets to be neutralized by vivid electric discharges, and through the mist jagged lightning flashed ceaselessly and the deep-throated rumble of thunder echoed in the mountains.
Dave had heard the sight of the Falls rivaled the splendor of Sirius’ incredible, tumultuous prominences. He could believe that now.
Man lacked the multiple perceptive ability so necessary to appreciate the tremendous forces in a solar storm. His sensual comprehension could not grasp and hold for cerebration the magnitude of the incredible, flaming vortices that writhed and twisted millions of miles above Sirius’ churning surface.
The Macro-Mafintic Falls can be adequately appreciated for all its majestic worth. It captures perception through senses that are instinctively familiar. Man has crawled on the slopes of mountains; felt the vibrating wonder of their creation. He has seen clouds form, felt the coolness of their mist; been thrilled by their rain. He has seen and felt and feared the lightning; trembled with wonder at the crack of thunder. He has built dams; listened with smug satisfaction as a tamed river roared its spilling protest. This, then, was but the infinite magnification of an age-old experience.
He looked on in wonder. The Falls seemed to strike on a churning violet cloud that billowed and swirled over a foundation of lightning before it fell into the incredible gorge.
The room was built on a promontory jutting out over a wide, deep chasm. A fireplace, burning golden apple wood, crackled behind him and the air was spicy with the tangy, piny freshness of high mountains.
Dave walked to the rail, looked up at the snow-capped peaks. Impossible to believe this sublime scene was but the three-dimensional art of a photographer. It was too dynamic. The flashing lightning, the rumble of thunder, the roar of the Falls muted by distance was too real.
It required actual mental effort for him to realize he was not standing on a real rock on Zaragahn looking at the Falls; instead he was in the grand salon of a sumptuous yacht, now resting in the landing cradle of Exotic Disease Control.
“Are you sight-seeing,” an irritable voice snapped, “or did you want to see me?”
Dave whirled and in a flash was conscious of Mortimer’s condescending sneer and the thin, vulture face of Mr. Nordheimer regarding him with cynical, beady black eyes.
“I’ve just examined your crewmen,” Dave announced flatly.
“That’s kind of you,” rasped Nordheimer, “now take them off so we can Earth. I’ve waited here long enough.”
Dave faced the fabulously wealthy, almost omnipotent Nordheimer with the slightest trickle of fear welling within him. Stories of his greedy love of power had seeped into the smallest colonies of Earth’s empire.
He had once hurled the might of his private spatial force on a planet because it failed to recognize his economic power. It was whispered that on the planets of the periphery he was worshiped as a god, a devil, an emperor; that one planet was his arsenal of empire, devoted exclusively to the manufacture of weapons to keep him in power. That some day he intended to be the master of the world.
“No!” Dave said, “their illness is not infectious; they do not need to be removed.”
There was a tormenting moment of intense nervous tension in the room. Lightning from the Falls tinted the walls vivid violet and the roll of thunder, like an oncoming storm, was a menacing rumble.
Nordheimer settled deeply into a low, spun-metal divan. Corrugated lids closed slowly over his venomous eyes. A cynical smile curled at the corners of his thin, bloodless lips. “My doctor said their illness was infectious; that is enough for me. I tell you now. Take those men off and at once. That is an order.”
“No!” Dave’s voice was curtly emphatic. “Your men suffered from protein starvation; they became anemic with a disease as old as Earthly immigration Chlorosis. You picked those men from some planet, brought them back here to save yourself the cost of a regular crew. I will inform the Immigration officers of this and they will remove and treat your men.”
Nordheimer’s brows met in a satanic V. His thin, irritable face reddened ominously. “You infer my doctor was wrong.”
“Your doctor,” D
ave answered, turning to Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer, “is an incompetent moron.”
“You can’t say that about me.” Mortimer started forward.
“Shut up!” Nordheimer growled. “He’s probably right.” He looked up at Dave, slowly, without moving his eyes from those of the doctor, reached out for a platinum-trimmed glass. A clawlike hand brought the glass to his mouth, he sipped slowly, hypnotic eyes looking steadily into Dr. Munroe’s. “Do you refuse to take those men off this ship?” The glass was held close to his mouth.
“I do,” Dave said steadily. “Exotic Disease Control is run for the public; not for the whims of privileged groups.”
‘The public.” Nordheimer snorted. “Who cares about them anyway—”
“The Public Health Service,” Dave retorted angrily. Nordheimer set the glass down, pulled a wallet from his pocket, extracted a thick sheaf of hundred stellar notes. “Take this and buy yourself a present. I’ll—”
Dave started towards the door. “I will release you at once, Immigration will expect you in thirty minutes.”
“Come back here.” Nordheimer whirled to Mortimer. “Summon the captain.”
“What’s the matter, Father; found something you can’t buy?” They turned at the throaty voice. Janith Nordheimer was standing in an open panel. Dave recognized her from the numerous picture magazines. She stepped out, walking the length of the compartment with a lazy, free stride. Viewing her this way, Dave could appreciate the groomed perfection she represented. She sauntered to a taboret, touched a pedal on the tesselated deck with the toe of a diamond-encrusted shoe.
“Hate that view,” she said as multiple panels formed to screen the view of the Falls. She rested her elbows on the back of a chair, regarded Dave, an insolent expression in her dark, sophisticated eyes.
“Protecting the insensate mob, watching the helpless public; you must have studied the manual of the Juvenile Planeteers. I understand they do things like good deeds and such.”
Mortimer snickered, clapping his hands together happily. “Munroe,” he giggled. “Munroe the Noble.”
The captain of the yacht came in at that moment. “You sent for me, sir?”
“Yeah.” Nordheimer jerked his head at Dave. “This bacteria engineer orders me, me to take my ship over to Immigration and have them put those patients in bed and I would have to pay for that, besides having all of the hoi polloi on Earth knowing where I’d been.”
“Yes, sir,” the captain said deferentially. “You will remember, sir, I advised you that landing at Exotic Disease Control, unless we had some really infectious disease, was dangerous—”
“Who cares about it being dangerous,” Nordheimer sneered. “Toss this germ mechanic—”
“Germ mechanic.” Dr. Mortimer discharged a bellow of laughter. “That’s a good one, yes sir, that’s really a good one, germ mechanic. I’ll have to remember that one—”
“Shut up when I’m talking,” Nordheimer rumbled. He turned back to the captain. “Toss him off the ship, and I don’t bother whether he has armor or not—”
“We’re too close to Earth for that now, sir,” the captain interposed cautiously. “All he has to do is to raise his hand, speak into his wrist communicator and we’d be blasted by the Guard before we could raise the Chancellor’s Office.”
Janith Nordheimer chuckled. “But he would be blasted, too.”
“That’s right,” the captain admitted, “but he is at Exotic Disease Control. The doctors of the Public Health Service ordered here are conditioned to expect death. It is part of their duty. I’m sure the doctor would rather die by a neutron blast than by a disease he is sure to get from some derelict from the outer nuclei.”
The Nordheimers looked at him with new-formed respect in their widened eyes. “We’ll go to Immigration,” Nordheimer said hastily. He whirled on Dave. “Understand one thing, you mention one word of this conversation officially and I’ll have your job.”
“Why, Mr. Nordheimer,” Dave hoped his expression showed astonished wonder, “I didn’t know you needed employment.”
The last thing he heard as he started down the corridor to the lock was Janith’s taunting laugh and her sneering admonition he had better be very, very careful from now on.
He told the doctors and the chief about the scene. “The Old Boy is a power,” Dr. Nissen pointed out in a worried voice. “He has lots of rocks in the sky, he can control Planetary Congress and they dictate to the Chancellor.”
“But they are all afraid of the public.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, there’s nothing to do about it now. Let’s go on to Blackbern’s patients.” He stopped, placed a hand on Nissen’s shoulder. “Of the two personalities, I admire Blackbern’s stupid ruthlessness much more than the calculating cruelty of the Teutonic-minded Nordheimer.”
Dave was in the A & R checking welds in his armor when Operations summoned him on the phone. “Get on the closed channel, the Director of the Inner Port wishes to speak to you privately.”
Dave made the contact in his office. “This is Munroe, Exotic Disease Control. Duty Officer requested I contact you on the closed channel.”
“Can your side be seen or heard in?” the director asked cautiously. Dave read off his settings. The director seemed satisfied, for he said at once, “Nordheimer is mad at you. He put pressure on the Chancellor, the cabinet met in secret session and is drafting a bill to limit the power of the Public Health Service. Nordheimer said he’d just be satisfied if they get rid of you. What happened?”
“I made him wait while I took care of some sick patients from a freighter.”
“He’s spreading some nasty tales about you. Something about accepting a bribe and insulting his daughter and calling his medical officer an incompetent fool—”
Dave laughed. “The last part is true. However, when I went aboard I was wearing an open wrist phone, everything that was said is a matter of record. I sent it to the Earth Office with my own comments.”
“If they can’t get you legally, he’ll do it some other way.”
“I’ve been expecting something,” Dave admitted. “But all they can do is kill me.”
“Don’t be so resigned,” the director snapped.
Three days later as the setting Earth was casting long shadows across the crater floor his dread was crystallized into reality.
He was standing by the ramp talking with the senior medical officer of an exploring battleship which had just slid out of the velvety sky to unload a pet for bacterial evaluation.
He laughed as the brontosaurus-like creature in its glassite cage was wheeled down the freight ramp. A thought flashed through his mind, amusing in its perversity. Nordheimer should have such an animal for his doctor.
The gong of the phone in his helmet was startlingly explosive. “Duty Officer on Operations Channel.” He muttered a hasty excuse to the doctor, walked over to the portable screen, plugged his phone jack.
“Duty Officer speaking. The Marston, a freighter, lost for over two years, has been found out near Pluto. The ship is owned by Astrosphere, one of the Nordheimer companies. Nordheimer requests a complete inner examination of the ship.
“The Public Health Service said an emphatic no. They could see no reason for risking valuable personnel. The company officials went to the Secretary of Spatial Commerce, stated the Marston had been sent on a voyage of commercial exploration and it was essential that not only the log be secured but the condition of the cargo be determined and the salvage possibilities of the ship. You’d have to go deep inside and make a determine. This order is for the public.”
Dave flicked off the phone with a wry grin. So this is how Brother Nordheimer acts when he’s crossed. He realized with cold objectivity this action on Nordheimer’s part was essential if he wished to continue in economic power.
Nordheimer could not attack him with his secret police; their altercation had been made public now and the mass of the people would rebel against such a militant action. He was doing it clever
ly, by seeing that he went into a ship with a high death potential.
He checked his armor minutely. Ran in new air lines, lights, communication circuits, even replaced the bearings on the blowers. He remembered Blackbern’s crack about broken welds; never left his armor alone. He charged his own physiology with every known immune vaccine, serum and bacterin. He spent his free time studying Pyter’s Index of Extraterrestrial Diseases.
When Operations called, announcing the tugs would cradle the freighter within an hour, he felt himself as ready for battle against the Unknown as he would ever be.
Dave armored himself, summoned the various crews who would help him make primary entrance, walked blithely out to the landing cradle.
He was not surprised to see the two armored figures of Dr. Mortimer J. Mortimer and Janith Nordheimer watching him, taunting smiles on their derisive faces. It intrigued him that they would leave off blank helmets to be certain he would see and recognize them; know to the fullness the bitterness of certain defeat at their hands. He would have felt let down if they had not been there.
He hid his galling frustration behind a mask of insouciant laughter. “Hail, Nordheimer. I who am about to die and stuff salute you.” There was mockery in his derisive salute.
“I’ll pull you from this detail if you’ll agree to be conditioned to work for father.” Janith directed her voice on a light beam so it could not be heard by her companion.
“Thanks for the offer,” Dave said quietly. “But you see I’m a physician.”
People from lunar stations were assembling about the cradle in a vast semicircle; gathering with the morbid fascination only impending catastrophe or violent death can induce. Dave looked at them in their varied armor, could not help but laugh at the neuroses which motivated such behavior.
He turned on the open communication circuit so all could hear him. “Now hear this.” He raised his voice, realizing as he shouted that he was betraying tension; instantly channeled his mind into precise, frigid patterns. “Now hear this,” he ordered quietly, as if directing one of his crews. “No one is to cross the limiting lights set by the tower. This order is for your protection.” He looked at Janith and Mortimer. “This order is for you, too. Get back at once.”