Earth Has Been Found (11 page)

“Presumably you searched the operation theater after the second case?”

“Oh yes. That produced one negative item. The theater staff was positive that the doors had not been opened until well after the discovery that the excised tumor had ruptured. It is possible that it left through the only exit — under the door. The gap had been measured: fifty millimeters.”

Silence filled the room. Freedman and Scott were trying to visualize a creature which could occupy the space of a large table tennis ball, capable of passing through a fifty-millimeter slot.

Scott repressed a shudder. He visualized it as a nematode, a human tapeworm, dirty white, glistening with slime.

Freedman had even more nightmarish thoughts. Two parasites were involved; neither had been found. Whatever its structure — he saw it as a fast-moving millipede — he was much more concerned with the creature’s brain. Conceived in space, from the moment of birth both creatures had sought escape from the artificial confines of man, and both had made it. Freedman, too, briefly considered tapeworms and at once discarded the idea. Nematodes had none of the physical ability, sensory equipment, or primal urge.

With the careful precision that marked all his movements, Mark took the whiskey bottle, emptied it into his glass, and after a moment’s consideration, downed it in one gulp.

“Tomorrow we must consider the implications for our Special List.” He spoke calmly. “I think we’ve had enough for one day.”

But despite the whiskey, Freedman couldn’t sleep. The discussion, however horrific, had at least dealt with medical practicalities, staggering but observed facts. Now, alone in the darkness, he felt that most awful fear — the fear of something unknown, incomprehensible — tearing at his insides. Somewhere up there lay the cause: some body, some thing …

XVII.

Essentially a simple, cheerful girl, Shane de Byl was bright enough to know she had no great brain. Okay, she could live with that. She knew she had a fine body, and the instincts to enjoy it and to use it for its proper function, children. But not just yet.

By 1983, those women who sought it had long won the battle for equality. But Shane was cast in an older, more elemental mold, and she saw her purpose in life as the enjoyment of her youth, later her husband and children, and in due course her grandchildren. Not that she had consciously worked it out. But had she been pressed, that would have been her answer.

Secretly she delighted in her body, watching its magical progression from puberty, from skinny flatness to ample, gentle curves. Every morning, flanked by a mirror on one side, an open window on the other, she had her private session of self-admiration, turning this way and that, craning her neck to see herself from all angles, conscious of the fresh air that added to her awareness by its chill touch.

She enjoyed too the approaches of men as natural tributes to an attractive girl, but lately she had repulsed all advances.

Jaimie was the man she wanted and intended to marry, even if he did not know it yet. Jaimie filled her thoughts, and the others could go jump in the nearest available lake. Shane was a nice, old-fashioned girl.

So when Jaimie asked her, as a favor, to allow herself to be examined by a specialist — purely in the interests of science — she was happy to oblige. She had no interest in knowing why, nor did she mind old Freedman being present. He had brought her into the world, and mentally she had already assigned him the task of helping her with her first child.

But she felt a faint twinge of disappointment when the specialist turned out to be a woman. She felt defensive before another female — especially this one, with her funny accent and cold, sharp manner. She might be a big wheel someplace, Shane decided, but she was still woman enough to feel jealous of Shane’s splendid breasts, when hers showed all too clearly the weight of her years.

The examination was certainly thorough. Shane felt there was not a single inch the specialist did not examine with chilling dispassion; she was glad Jaimie was not present.

And then a whole stack of questions, that made no sense to her. Did she feel well? What a stupid question! Her broken leg seemed to fascinate the woman.

Old Freedman said little during the examination or the questioning, but he asked the question that got the specialist away from her leg. Had she recently suffered from any ailments, no matter how slight? Strange, really — she’d tried hard to remember, for Doc Freedman in his funny old voice seemed very anxious to know, his dark eyes watching her intently. For his sake, she thought hard, finally remembering a spot on her arm that had itched.

She indicated the area, and wished she hadn’t. Doc and the woman examined the whole arm as if they were looking for gold. Finding nothing, they questioned her again about the location, and the more she thought about it, the less sure she was where it had been. The specialist, ignoring Shane as a person while her strong fingers kneaded the muscles of her arm, said to Freedman that she didn’t think X ray would reveal anything. That alarmed Shane: but Freedman, who did not regard her as a dummy, calmed her fears.

When she left, bruises were beginning to appear on her arm. Stupid old cow! Carrying on about a bite she’d forgotten, something that happened way back, after that crazy flight.

*

Two more Specials came in for checkups that morning. Freedman introduced Tatyana Marinskiya as “a colleague from Europe.” She said nothing, sticking to a nod and a smile, but she listened carefully. Freedman slipped in questions about insect bites without raising his patients’ suspicions. The first recalled nothing. The second, a seventy-year-old widow, said yes, she’d had a bite about the time she got back. She’d been a regular martyr to insects all her life, she explained at length. The smallest bite would blow up …

Nodding understandingly, Freedman stemmed the flood of reminiscence. Had that particular bite given her a bad time?

Funny he should ask, said the widow. No, it hadn’t. She’d rubbed it with some ointment, and that was the last she’d thought of it until now.

Treating Tatyana to a lunch of hamburgers and coffee at Mom’s Diner, Mark casually named the unknown parasite. It had to be called something, he said, and
Xeno
struck him as apt, being Greek for “Stranger.” It sure as hell was that.

When they returned to the office, they found Scott eating lunch with one hand while writing his case notes with the other. He had one item: a Special had recalled a bite on her breast. She was sure of the timing; she’d figured it was a flea bite collected in a particularly seedy hotel she’d stayed in on the tour. Scott had examined the area — the breastbone, where the tissue over the sternum has little thickness — and found no sign of anything.

Tatyana remained silent. Leaning back in her chair, she lit one of her black Russian cigarettes, eased her shoes off under the desk, and asked Mark his views on Xeno.

First of all, said Freedman, the Soviet experience demonstrated that Xeno found the human body an acceptable host. Their scant knowledge of the creature made speculation on how or why a waste of time. He would concentrate on the practicalities of dealing with the intruder. With only two cases to study, it was impossible to form hard and fast opinions, but he felt the indications were that after a dormant period, the embryo established an exceedingly close relationship with its host — witness the sudden death of the pilot on surgical separation. Tentatively, he felt that surgical intervention at the earliest moment might still be the answer, but speed of an unprecedented order would be necessary; minutes could count.

Scott was horrified by Mark’s calm, dispassionate appraisal, but Tatyana listened with deep attention. She was an eminent authority in cytology, but had no specialized knowledge of parasites — certainly nothing to compare to Freedman’s expertise. In the ten years before he settled in Abdera, he had deliberately sought a varied medical experience around the world. In Africa he had become familiar with bilharzia, caused by the parasite
schistosoma
, whose life cycle was hardly less fantastic than that of Xeno.

Freedman turned to the
Papa
Kilo
victims. The evidence was scant, but he had no serious doubt that some, possibly all, had been implanted. He based his case on the insect bites and the inordinate craving for foods high in vitamin B-12. True, neither of the Russians appeared to have this desire; perhaps, he said tactfully, their “social environment” made it difficult for such cravings to be known or satisfied.

As to the time scale, in the Ilyushin case some fourteen months had elapsed before the acute stage began. If the dormant stage was always that long, then, at least in Abdera, they had time to think and prepare. Currently, he ruled out exploratory surgery, for the exact locations of the bites or implants were uncertain, and to go digging during the dormant stage for something that was evidently very small, without knowing what to look for, would certainly be a waste of time. No, they must wait, and be prepared to attack the parasites at various stages of active growth with the knife, radio therapy, or chemotherapy. The recovery of a fully grown Xeno was of vital importance to greater understanding. “Obviously, no two or three doctors can tackle this threat,” he said. “Potentially we have seventy-odd patients, all likely to require sophisticated treatment around the same time. I shall put this to Malin immediately.”

Tatyana nodded vigorously. “The problem cannot be met in this clandestine way. I too will take the same line with my government and Mr. Malin. Total cooperation! Immediate hospitalization of all patients!”

“Yes … ” Mark regarded her thoughtfully. “But here in the States it’s not that easy. Interference with a citizen’s rights — well, interference he or she objects to — is political dynamite.”

She glared as if it was his fault. “They must be
made
to obey! In the Soviet Union … ”

*

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 bottle — 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.