The Collected Stories of Frank Herbert (12 page)

“Linked gene,” said Trent. “Intelligence factor coupled. They use their
mikeses
generators to open up the gene pairs and…”

“That's right,” said Han-Meers. “You studied with them. What's the name of that Vegan you're always talking about?”

“Ger (whistle) Anso-Anso.”

“That's the one. Isn't he on Earth with the Vegan delegation?”

Trent nodded. “I met him at the Quebec conference ten years ago—the year before we made the biophysical survey to Vega. He's really a nice fellow once you get to know him.”

“Not for me.” Han-Meers shook his head. “They're too tall and disdainful. Make me feel inferior. Always harping about their damned
mikeses
generators and what they can do in bio-physics.”

“They can do it, too.”

“That's what makes them so damned irritating!”

Trent laughed. “If it'll make you feel any better, the Vegans may be all puffed up with pride about their bio-physics, but they're jealous as all git-out over our tool facility.”

“Hmmmph!” said Han-Meers.

“I still think we should send them dogs for experimental purposes,” said Trent. “The Lord knows we're not going to have any dogs left pretty soon at the rate we're going.”

“We won't send them a sick spaniel as long as Gilberto Nathal is in the Federated Senate,” said Han-Meers. “Every time the subject comes up, he jumps to his feet and hollers about the pride of Earth and the out-worlder threat.”

“But…”

“It hasn't been too long since the Denebian campaign,” said Han-Meers.

Trent wet his lips with his tongue. “Mmmmm, hmmmm. How are the other research centers coming?”

“Same as we are. The morning report shows a lot of words which sum up to a big round zero.” Han-Meers reached into his pocket, extracted a yellow sheet of paper. “Here, you may as well see this. It'll be out pretty soon, anyway.” He thrust the paper into Trent's hand.

Trent glanced at the heading:

BUREAU-GRAM—DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH AND SANITATION—PRIMARY SECRET:

He looked up at Han-Meers.

“Read it,” said the professor.

Trent looked back to the
bureau-gram
. “Department doctors today confirmed that Virus D-D which is attacking the world's canines is one-hundred percent fatal. In spite of all quarantine precautions it is spreading. The virus knows kinship to hog cholera, but will thrive in a solution of protomycetin strong enough to kill any other virus on the list. It shows ability to become dormant and anerobic. Unless a suitable weapon with which to combat this disease is found within two more months, Earth is in danger of losing its entire population of wolves, dogs, foxes, coyote…”

Trent looked back to Han-Meers. “We've all suspected it was this bad, but…” He tapped the
bureau-gram
.

Han-Meers slipped the paper from Trent's grasp. “Varley, you held out on the census takers when they came around counting dogs, didn't you?”

Trent pursed his lips. “What makes you say a thing like that?”

“Varley, I wouldn't turn you over to the police. I am suggesting you contact your Vegan and give him your dogs.”

Trent took a deep breath. “I gave him five puppies last week.”

*   *   *

A Capital correspondent for a news service had broken the story six weeks previously, following up a leak in the Health and Sanitation Committee of the Federated Senate. A new virus was attacking the world's canine population and no means of fighting it was known. People already realized their pets were dying off in droves. The news story was enough to cause a panic. Interstellar passenger space disappeared. Powerful men exerted influence for themselves and friends. People ran every which way with their pets, hopelessly tangling inter-world quarantine restrictions. And the inevitable rackets appeared.

SPECIAL CHARTER SHIP TO PLANETS OF ALDEBARAN. STRICTEST QUARANTINE REQUIREMENTS. TRAINED ATTENDANTS TO GUARD YOUR PETS IN TRANSIT. PRICE: FIFTY THOUSAND CREDITS A KILO.

The owners, of course, could not accompany their pets, shipping space being limited.

This racket was stopped when a Federation patrol ship ran into a strange meteor swarm beyond Pluto, stopped to map its course, discovered the swarm was composed of the frozen bodies of dogs.

Eleven days after the virus story appeared, the Arcturian planets banned Terran dogs. The Arcturians knew dog-smuggling would begin and their people could profit.

*   *   *

Trent kept six part-beagle hounds in a servo-mech kennel at an Olympic Mountain hunting camp. They were at the camp when the government instituted its emergency census of dogs. Trent deliberately overlooked mentioning them.

Leaving Pullman at three o'clock the morning after he talked to Han-Meers, he put his jet-copter on autopilot, slept until he reached Aberdeen.

The Aberdeen commander of the Federated Police was a graying, burn-scarred veteran of the Denebian campaign. His office was a square room overlooking the harbor. The walls were hung with out-world weapons, group photographs of officers and men. The commander stood up as Trent entered, waved him to a chair. “Makaroff's the name. What can I do for you?”

Trent introduced himself, sat down, explained that he was a member of the Pullman research staff, that he had nine hounds—six adults and three puppies—at a mountain kennel.

The commander seated himself, grasped the arms of his chair, leaned back. “Why aren't they in one of the government preserves?”

Trent looked the man in the eyes. “Because I was convinced they'd be safer where they are and I was right. The preserves are infested. Yet my hounds are in perfect health. What's more, Commander, I've discovered that humans are carrying the disease. We…”

“You mean if I pet a dog that could kill it?”

“That's right.”

The commander fell silent. Presently, he said, “So you disobeyed the quarantine act, eh?”

“Yes.”

“I've done the same kind of thing myself on occasion,” said the commander. “You see some stupid order given, you know it won't work; so you go against it. If you're wrong they throw the book at you; if you're right they pin a medal on you. I remember one time in the Denebian campaign when…”

“Could you put an air patrol over my camp?” asked Trent.

The commander pulled at his chin. “Hounds, eh? Nothing better than a good hunting hound. Damned shame to see them die with all the rest.” He paused. “Air patrol, eh? No humans?”

“We have two months to find an answer to this virus or there won't be another dog on earth,” said Trent. “You see how important those dogs could be?”

“Bad as that, eh?” He pulled a vidi-phone to him. “Get me Perlan.” He turned to Trent. “Where is your camp?”

Trent gave him the vectors. The commander scribbled them on a scratch pad.

A face came on the screen. “Yes, sir.”

The commander turned back to the vidi-phone. “Perlan, I want a robotics air patrol—twenty-four-hour duty—over a hunting camp at,” he glanced at the scratch pad, “vectors 8181-A and 0662-Y, Olympic West Slope. There's a kennel at the camp with nine hounds in it. No humans at all must contact those dogs.” He wet his lips with his tongue. “A doctor has just told me that humans are carrying this Virus D-D thing.”

When Trent landed at Pullman that afternoon he found Han-Meers waiting in Lab E. The professor sat on the same stool as though he had not moved in two days. His slant eyes contemplated the cage which had held the fox terrier. Now there was an airdale in the enclosure. As Trent entered, Han-Meers turned.

“Varley, what is this the Aberdeen policeman tells the news services?”

Trent closed the lab door.
So the commandant had talked.

“Flores Clinic was on the line twice today,” said Han-Meers. “Want to know what we discovered that they overlooked. The policeman has perhaps made up a story?”

Trent shook his head. “No. I told him a hunch of mine was an actual fact. I had to get an air patrol over my hunting camp. Those hounds are in perfect health.”

Han-Meers nodded. “They have been without such a convenience all summer. Now they have to have it.”

“I've been afraid they were dead. After all, I raised those hounds from pups. We've hunted and…”

“I see. And tomorrow we tell everybody it was a big mistake. I had thought you possessed more scientific integrity than that.”

Trent hid his anger behind a passive face, slipped off his coat, donned a lab smock. “My dogs were isolated from humans all summer. We…”

“The Flores people have been thorough in their investigation,” said Han-Meers. “They suspect we are trying to…”

“Not thorough enough.” Trent opened a cupboard door, took out a bottle of green liquid. “Are you going to stay here and help or are you going to let me tackle this one alone?”

Han-Meers took off his coat, found an extra lab smock. “You are out on a thin limb, Varley.” He turned, smiled. “But what a wonderful opportunity to give those M.D.'s a really big come-uppance.”

*   *   *

At nine-sixteen the next morning, Trent dropped a glass beaker. It shattered on the tile floor and Trent's calm shattered with it. He cursed for two minutes.

“We are tired,” said Han-Meers. “We will rest, come back to it later. I will put off the Flores people and the others today. There is still…”

“No.” Trent shook his head. “We're going to take another skin wash on me with Clarendon's Astringent.”

“But we've already tried that twice and…”

“Once more,” said Trent. “This time we'll add the synthetic dog blood
before
fractionating.”

At ten-twenty-two, Han-Meers set the final test tube in a plastic diffraction rack, pressed a switch at its base. A small silver cobweb shimmered near the top of the tube.

“Ahhhhhh!” said the professor.

They traced back. By noon they had the pattern: Dormant virus was carried in the human glands of perspiration, coming out through the pores—mostly in the palms of the hands—only under stress of emotion. Once out of the pores, the virus dried, became anerobic.

“If I hadn't dropped that beaker and become angry,” said Trent.

“We would still be looking,” added Han-Meers. “Devil of a one, this. Dormant and in minute quantity. That is why they missed it. Who tests an excited subject? They wait for him to become calm.”

“Each man kills the thing he loves,” quoted Trent.

“Should pay more attention to philosophers like Oscar Wilde,” said Han-Meers. “Now I will call the doctors, tell them of their error. They are not going to like a mere biologist showing them up.”

“It was an accident,” said Trent.

“An accident based on observation of your dogs,” said Han-Meers. “It is, of course, not the first time such accidents have occurred to mere biologists. There was Pasteur. They had him stoned in the village streets for…”

“Pasteur was a chemist,” said Trent curtly. He turned, put test tube and stand on a side bench. “We'll have to tell the authorities to set up robotics service for the remaining dogs. That may give us time to see this thing through.”

“I will use your lab phone to call the doctors,” said Han-Meers. “I cannot wait to hear that Flores' voice when…”

The phone rang. Han-Meers put it to his ear. “Yes. I am me … I mean, I am here. Yes, I will take the call.” He waited. “Oh, hello, Dr. Flores. I was just about to…” Han-Meers fell silent, listened. “Oh, you did?” His voice was flat. “Yes, that agrees with our findings. Yes, through the pores of the hands mostly. We were waiting to confirm it, to be certain … Yes, by our Dr. Trent. He's a biologist on the staff here. I believe some of your people were his students. Brilliant fellow. Deserves full credit for the discovery.” There was a long silence. “I insist on scientific integrity, Dr. Flores, and I have your report in my hands. It absolves humans as carriers of the virus. I agree that this development will be bad for your clinic, but that cannot be helped. Good-bye, Dr. Flores. Thank you for calling.” He hung up the phone, turned. Trent was nowhere in sight.

That afternoon, the last remaining pureblood Saint Bernard died at Angúac, Manitoba. By the following morning, Georgian officials had confirmed that their isolation kennels near Igurtsk were infested. The search for uninfected dogs continued, conducted now by robots. In all the world there were nine dogs known to be free of Virus D-D—six adult hounds and three puppies. They sniffed around their mountain kennel, despondent at the lack of human companionship.

When Trent arrived at his bachelor apartment that night he found a visitor, a tall (almost seven feet) Class C humanoid, head topped by twin, feather-haired crests, eyes shaded by slitted membranes like Venetian blinds. His slender body was covered by a blue robe, belted at the waist.

“Ger!” said Trent. He shut the door.

“Friend Varley,” said the Vegan in his odd, whistling tones.

They held out their hands, pressed palms together in the Vegan fashion. Ger's seven-fingered hands felt overwarm.

“You've a fever,” said Trent. “You've been too long on Earth.”

“It is the accursed oxidized iron in your environment,” said Ger. “I will take an increased dosage of medicine tonight.” He relaxed his crests, a gesture denoting pleasure. “But it is good to see you again, Varley.”

“And you,” said Trent. “How are the…” He put a hand down, made the motion of petting a dog.

“That is why I came,” said Ger. “We need more.”

“More? Are the others dead?”

“Their cells are alive in new descendants,” said Ger. “We used an acceleration chamber to get several generations quickly, but we are not satisfied with the results. Those were very strange animals, Varley. Is it not peculiar that they were identical in appearance?”