The Jupiter Plague

“Well, that’s what you’re here for, Frank, so we can find out,” Sam said, putting the records back without changing his expression. “Now lie back so you don’t roll off and we’ll see about getting you to bed.” He pushed the stretcher into the tight quarantine ward and the massive door swung behind them.

Nita was cheerful and fluffed the policeman’s pillow, produced a menu for him to study, saying that he looked hungry, and even found a bottle of beer that had been tucked away in the back of the refrigerator. Sam worked swiftly attaching the telltales to the patient’s dry, hot skin and it took him almost fifteen minutes to get them all accurately placed and recording to his satisfaction. In that time the patient’s fever went up a full degree. The first boils were already beginning to form when he closed the door of the office and dialed Dr. McKay’s number, touching in sequence the dimpled numbers of the induction dial.

“We’ve been monitoring your pickups,” McKay said.

“Are there any recommendations for treatment?”

“They are under discussion—”

“But you must have some suggestions?” Sam clenched his fists, keeping his temper under control.

“There is some difference of opinion. Supportive treatment appeared to have been ineffective with the last case, but it has been suggested that in combination with interferon it might be more effective and a supply is on the way to you now. However hyperbaric oxygen therapy has been successful with related…”

“Dr. McKay,” Sam broke in, “there is no hyperbaric chamber here, so treatment would mean moving the patient again. You must understand— the instruments can’t tell you everything — this man is dying before my eyes. I’ve never seen a disease progress with the speed of this one. Have you?”

McKay shook his head with a weary no and Sam leaned closer to the phone.

“Do I have your permission to begin supportive treatment with interferon and antibiotics to stop any secondary infections? I must do something.‘”

“Yes, of course, Dr. Bertolli, after all he is your patient and I quite agree with your decision. I’ll notify the committee of what has been done.”

When Sam hung up he found that Nita was standing behind him.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Yes, you did the only thing. They can’t possibly understand without seeing the patient. I had to give him some Surital, six cc’s, he was getting excited, almost hysterical, is that all right?”

“It has to be correct because anything we do now is dictated by the patient’s needs. Let’s see if the interferon has come yet.”

The capsule was waiting in the receiving basket and Sam quickly prepared the injection while Nita swabbed the patient’s arm. He was lying on his back, his eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily through his mouth. His skin was spotted with the angry red swellings of the boils. Sam gave him a large intravenous injection, the blood stream would carry the interferon to every part of the body, then injected one of the furnucles with a smaller dose.

“We can use that for a control,” he said, ringing the injection site with an iodine marking. “Interferon applied locally is always more effective. In combination with the antipyretic we may get some positive results.”

There was no dramatic improvement after this, though the policeman’s temperature did drop two degrees. McKay and his group monitored everything and suggested variations in treatment. The burly policeman was Sam’s patient and he resented their attitude, that the man was a sort of giant guinea pig, though he made no protests. The policeman was a guinea pig; if he could be cured the treatment would be available for others.

And there were other cases. They were being routed to New York Hospital, where a special sealed ward, far bigger than this experimental one, had been evacuated and staffed with volunteers. It was difficult to learn how many there were, even the official medical reports were reticent with the facts, while the TV and radio bulletins were obviously stopgap morale builders. Sam had his patient to care for or he would have seethed with frustration at being trapped in the ward while a plague might be growing in the city outside.

“What is that for?” he asked when he saw Nita removing a wire basket of pigeons from the tube capsule. He had been aware of her working in the lab during the past hours, though he hadn’t talked to her. She brushed a strand of russet hair away from her eyes and pointed to the desk.

“I have been reading reports all day from the laboratories that are working on the Rand virus and there is one experiment that they haven’t performed yet, that would be safest to do here in tight quarantine where we have a patient ill with Rand’s disease.”

“What experiment is that?”