The Jupiter Plague

“Stay in the cab,” he shouted. “He has it, an advanced case.”

Sam was looking into his bag, taking out a riot shot, and when he glanced up the broken bottle was coming down toward his face and Killer was howling a warning from the cab. It was a trained reflex that raised his arm to stop the blow, his forearm striking at the other’s wrist. The man was weak — how could he walk at all riddled with the cysts as he must be? — and could only swing again feebly. Sam kept a tight grip on the man’s wrist while he slapped him in the back of the neck with a riot shot. The stricken man began to sag at once and Sam had to drag him clear of the broken glass before he could let him fall to the ground. As swiftly as possible he administered the interferon shot and the prescribed antiseptic treatment. Killer had the upper bunk swung down and locked and Finn helped him swing the inert body up into it. When they moved forward again the UN soldier walked in front of the ambulance.

They could not reach Second Avenue because the crush of cars had pressed up onto the sidewalk and against the buildings there. Sam unshipped two of the lightweight magnesium stretchers and the emergency kit and, fully loaded, twisted his way behind the alert soldier toward the plaza by the tunnel entrance.

The riot was over and had left behind a score of wounded and dead. An airborne UN medical team had arrived with the soldiers in a big combat copter; it had landed in the roadway just before the tunnel entrance, and they were already tending the wounded. A blood-soaked policeman lay on the ground next to his patrol car and the drip in his arm led to the plasma bottle hung from the car’s rearview mirror. The soldiers had moved in quick-ly and aided the police in rounding up those of the battered rioters who had not escaped. Separated from the jam of the other cars was a still smoking and flame-seared panel truck. A police lieutenant near it saw Sam’s white jacket and waved him over.

“Anything to be done with this one, Doctor?” He pointed to the man crumpled on the front seat of the truck whose hand, spotted with dried blood, hung out of the window. Sam put down his burdens and pressed the telltale against the projecting wrist. Temperature seventy-eight, no pulse.

“He’s dead.” Sam put the instrument back into its case. “What happened here?”

“Just a crowd at first. We’re trying to control all traffic to the Island because most of the cases of plague are still coming from there. Make sure people live there or got business, and stop them from taking any birds out. That’s what set it off. There was a lot of horn-blowing and shouting, but nothing else until someone saw the sign PET SHOP on this truck and hauled the doors open. This poor slob had it full of birds from his shop, God knows what he thought he was doing with them. Someone shot him, they set the truck on fire, then they spotted a couple of guys with plague and after that I lost track until the Army arrived…”

“Doctor — over here!” Finn was waving and Sam saw that he was pointing to two men lying on a cleared patch of ground. They both had Rand’s disease. He began the prophylaxis and treatment at once.

Maximum capacity of the ambulance was eight and they had only four cases of Rand’s diseasae, but all of the conscious burn and wound cases refused to travel in the same machine. There was no point in arguing, so they carried in the unconscious policeman with the plasma drip and left the last three places empty. Killer backed skillfully up the street and; with siren wailing, they rushed back to Bellevue. On the way they received a radioed warning that the emergency wards were full and the operating rooms jammed: they went around to the main entrance, where volunteer stretcher-bearers from the clerical departments were waiting to carry the patients up to the just-evacuated maternity wards. The hospital was rapidly being filled to capacity.

Sam was refilling his depleted emergency kit in the supply room when Tomo Miletich, another intern, found him.

“Sign here and here,” Tomo said, pushing a hospital form over to him. “I’m taking over your meat wagon and you’re supposed to call telephone central for a message. Is Killer your driver?”

“Yes, he’s at the wheel.” Sam scrawled his initials. “But what is it about?”

“No idea, I just follow orders. See you — if I survive Killer’s driving.” He shouldered the refilled kit and left. Sam looked for a phone.

“Just a moment, Dr. Bertolli,” the operator said, and flicked through her message file. “Yes, there is a guest in your room who is waiting for you, and after this will you please see Professor Chabel, he’s with Dr. McKay in 3911.”

“Do you know who is waiting in my room?”

“There is no record of that, Doctor.”