The Jupiter Plague

They both smiled at the memory, nothing more; there was nothing more they could do, here in this place, at this time. Sam recognized the feelings he had — then turned his back on them. The world now was too upside down to allow him to consider personal desires. They took the elevator to the staff cafeteria.

“It’s good soup,” Nita said, taking small and precise spoonfuls.

“And cheap, too, very important for starving interns. Was there anything new in those reports, Nita, anything not classified, that is?”

“No, not classified, but not for the public either. The hospitals report eight thousand cases in Manhattan alone, twenty-five thousand more in the other boroughs and the suburban area. The Army has commandeered a lot of hotels for emergency use; there aren’t enough medical staff or supplies to care for them all, though volunteers are pouring in.”

Sam spooned slowly at the soup, then stopped and let the spoon fall from his fingers. He looked at Nita and his expression was so stark and bleak that she almost shuddered.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A feeling, that’s all. Probably brought on by fatigue. Do you remember the old saying, about having the sensation that someone was walking on your grave?” She nodded. “Well the feeling I have is like that — only stronger. Like something very large and very ugly is walking on the grave of all mankind.”

“There are a lot of people in the world…”

“Yes — and all of them could catch Rand’s disease and die. And that would be the end of the human race.”

“We’ve been around a long time,” she said, trying to think of something to say that would take him out of this black depression. “We’re a hard species to kill.”

“That doesn’t mean it can’t be done. I imagine the dinosaurs felt that they had it made too. Any species could be wiped out. I have this absolutely frightening vision of the world still here — only with all of mankind gone.”

“We’ve survived plagues before.”

‘Yes, but none like this. None so alien, literally from another world. We have no defenses against this one, no antibodies, nothing. It doesn’t follow the rules and we have absolutely no idea of how to effect a cure.

Nita reached out and put her hand on his. “Sam,” she said, absolutely at a loss for words. “Sam…”

Her touch, her presence and sympathy penetrated his black mood where all argument had failed. He smiled and took her hand with his.

“Sorry. I don’t usually do this sort of thing. But what you said, about how bad it really is out there, it just tipped me over. I’ll be all right now. Your magic touch snapped me out of it. You should be a faith healer.”

“I am.” Her smile mirrored his.

He pushed his unfinished soup away and climbed to his feet. “I had better get back on the job…”

He broke off as he picked his name out of the string of half-heard messages being constantly muttered from the loudspeaker on the wall above them.

“… attention Doctor Bertolli. Will you please report to Doctor McKay’s office. This is an urgent message. Doctor Bertolli…”

He went there as fast as he could without running, and pushed the door open to find both McKay and Chabel staring at a thin strip of paper.

“I think this is something you can do, Sam,” McKay said, smiling as he held out the paper. “There’s been a report from Orange County, from a GP up there. He’s been treating a case of Rand’s disease and he says that he has effected a cure.”

7

The green and white police copter had landed on the copter port on the twenty-fifth floor setback and the door was open, waiting for Sam when he came out of the elevator. A police sergeant, a Black with skin almost as dark as his uniform, an old New Yorker, stood in the doorway. He jumped down and helped Sam load in his medical kit, then slammed the door. The jets at the tips of the long copter blades began to whistle and the floor shuddered with their acceleration as the machine hauled itself into the air, swung in a tight arc and headed north. Once they were airborne the sergeant dropped into a seat and watched the rooftops of Manhattan stream by below. The vertical slabs of the midtown business section gave way to the grass- and tree-dotted residential areas, then the blue of the big lake in Harlem Park that had been blasted out of the heart of the old slum area.

Just north of the park the silvery threads of the East and West Side monorail lines met and crossed. When the copter swung out in a wide arc over the Hudson River the sergeant turned away from the window and looked at Sam.

“You’re Dr. Bertolli,” he said, “and the commissioner himself told me I was to take you up to this spot in Orange County and bring you back in one piece. He didn’t say why — is it still top secret?”

“No,” Sam said, “I imagine he was just afraid of rumors getting started before we found out the truth. But there is supposed to be a patient up there, the local doctor says he has cured him of Rand’s disease…”

“The plague from space?” the pilot said, half turning his head to listen. “You catch it you’re dead, every time, that’s what I heard.”