"Well furcrysay, Doc, what you looking at me like that for? I didn't murder anybody, or anything—I'm just a bit stoned, that's all."
"The origin of your condition would be quite obvious, even to an untrained eye," Sato said stiffly. He came to a decision. "If you will join me in the lounge, there are certain matters we should discuss."
"This time of the morning?"
"As you have seen fit to wake me, yes, I think this time would be as good as any," Sato said.
In the lounge, Piet Huygens lowered himself clumsily to the
tatami.
The encounter had obviously sobered him slightly and he was sufficiently in control of his faculties to stare at Sato with some resentment
"First I would like you to tell me where you have been," Sato said, squatting opposite Piet.
"The Magnolia bar, down at the crossroads."
"Until now?"
"I have friends down there," Piet said resentfully.
"Baba? Yes, I know of her. And from what I hear she is not a good woman."
"A good woman—hell, Doc, who spends till two o'clock in the morning with a
good
woman?"
"And your wife—Mia?"
"Ah, now look here ..."
"All right—that is none of my business," Sato said. "But I must remind you that we decided when you arrived that it would be best for you to stay here in the house as much as possible, and not draw attention to yourself."
"So who's drawing attention? A few quiet drinks ..."
"Possibly—but surely you must realize that the police keep such places under constant surveillance?"
"So you fix it, huh, Uncle Sato? You're the big man around here, aren't you? I mean, like Minister of Health, you've got a lot of pull, even if you are a pretty lousy medic, and you are trying to put one over on the independence investigator."
Sato felt a surge of anger at the jeering tone, and a flush of fear. "What do you mean?"
"Aw, come off it, Sato," Piet said, fumbling with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. "A fifth-rate virus infection like Johannsen's disease, and you can't lick it. I'm not surprised you're trying to keep it quiet, instead of asking for Magnus's help and revealing your incompetence."
"You know?"
Huygens lit a bent cigarette and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. "Sure I know. You think I'm stupid, or something? 'Catch a cold and find a monster'—I heard that down at the Magnolia a few times, and I must admit that I didn't think of it as anything more than one of your cute Keplerian sayings until Mia mentioned about Yoko, and her first baby. Then I decided it was time I had a little chat with your darling daughter."
"You talked to Yoko—what about?"
"Her pregnancy, of course. It was quite clear from what Mia had told me that the poor girl was in need of some kind of reassurance."
"Reassurance? What have you been telling her?" demanded Sato.
"Just that her fears are quite groundless, and that there's no possible reason why she shouldn't bear a normal child now that the disease is out of her system."
"You had no business to interfere."
"On the contrary—I felt that I had a duty to do so," Huygens said. "As her father and physician it seems to me that you've been doing a pretty poor job of reassuring her."
"You may be right, but you should have talked with me first," Sato said.
"With you? When do I ever see you, for God's sake?" Huygens said. He appeared comparatively sober now,, as he leaned forward. "Look here, Sato, how much longer do you think I can stand being cooped up doing absolutely nothing? I have professional training and ability, all of it going to waste. Can't you see I want to help?"
"I explained before, that is impossible at this stage. When
Venturer Twelve
has left Kepler, and the independence investigation is over..."
"No,
nowl"
Huygens said forcefully. "You've got yourself tied in knots over this Johannsen's business. What's the matter—don't you trust me?"
The bluntness of the challenge made Sato once more aware and ashamed of his own prejudice. There was no real reason to suppose that Huygens was anything other than what he appeared to be, and yet. ... He hesitated.
"Look, for a start, you could at least tell me the real reason you haven't reported the incidence of Johannsen's disease to Magnus."
"Because the president has expressly forbidden me to do so—and for a very good reason," Sato said. "Explorations Division would be delighted to receive such a ready-made excuse to deny independence and deliver us back into the hands of the Excelsior Corporation."
Huygens squinted at his host through a cloud of tobacco smoke. "You really think that Explorations Division would do that?"
"It seems likely," Sato said. "After all, both organizations are Earth-based, with common links and interests."
Huygens shook his head, grinning. "Man, that just shows how little you know about what really goes on back home. You're looking at the whole thing from the wrong end—the Kepler end—of the telescope. If the corporations had their way, there wouldn't even
be
an Explorations Division. Then they could really start to milk the colonial planets in earnest. Magnus isn't here to rob you of your precious independence—he's just as anxious as you are that Kepler should qualify. United Earth needs strong, independent colonies who will stand by her, not rebellious subject-planets starved of development ready to stab her in the back at the first opportunity."
Sato recognized that his point of view was parochial, but it was one which he shared with the majority of Keplerians. Despite the outward show of welcome for Magnus and
Venturer Twelve,
it was natural that after a century of thralldom to the Excelsior Corporation's cold commercialism there should be some distrust in Earth politics. "There may be some truth in what you say," he admitted, "but the decision not to be per-fectly frank with Magnus was made at presidential level, and I have no authority to alter it."
"Pity," said Huygens. "Then it looks as though you're going to have to play this thing the hard way, even though there must be enough attenuated virus in
Vee Twelve's
stock to immunize the entire population of Kepler ten times over. Just how much Johannsen's do you have, anyway?"
"The incidence is comparatively small. There were twelve cases notified last month," lied Sato. He was well aware that the true figure had been nearer a hundred, and that in the first ten days of the present month, that number had already been passed, but he did not want to panic Huygens and send him howling back to
Venturer Twelve
with the story of a growing epidemic.
"Notified cases—but there must be others that you don't know about," Huygens said. "After all, apart from its effect on pregnant women, Johannsen's isn't a particularly incapacitating disease. It has been known for people to continue working right through an attack without realizing that they are suffering from anything more serious than a touch of common cold."
"That is possible," agreed Sato. He found that his innate dislike of Huygens was gradually being tempered by respect for the man's professional approach. Perhaps the solution to many of his problems had been lying here, in his own home, all the time.
"It would seem to me that the most important aspect as far as Kepler is concerned is the possible genetic effects of Johannsen's," Huygens said. "A colonial planet needs all the strong, healthy children it can produce, if it is to develop. If incidence is as low as you say, then there should be no difficulty in concealing the cases during the independence investigations, but that's only a part of the story. We've got to tackle the situation from the long-term point of view."
Huygen's use of the collective *we' might be interpreted to mean that he was already identifying himself with the inhabitants of Kepler rather than the Space Corps, or United Earth, but Sato remained cautious. "My colleague, Mary Osawa, is working on the development of a serum at the present time."
"A serum?" Huygens regarded his host with some surprise. "We abandoned serum treatment of this kind of virus infection nearly a century ago back on Earth. I'm not absolutely sure of the figures, but I'd like to bet that any immunity provided by serums in a disease like Johannsen's wouldn't last more than a month or so, at most. The only really effective method is to develop an attenuated virus strain, and use that to enable the body to set up its own resistance system."
We're hick witch doctors to this bright young man with all Earth's training and confidence behind him, thought Sato. He has been at the center of medical research, where all the latest methods are at his fingertips. Whereas we, isolated here on our little ball of mud, light years from that center, can only grope towards solutions, using out-of-date methods.
"Sato, you've got to let me help you with this thing," persisted Huygens. "I did some research work on virology back in Lake Cities. Give me a laboratory and some competent technicians, and let me start work on the development of an attenuated strain right away. That's the only possible way in which this thing can be conquered."
Sato nodded wearily. "You may very well be right," he admitted. "But for the time being we must remember that you are still a fugitive. You must give me time to discuss this with my colleagues, and decide the best way in which matters can be arranged."
BIOCOM H.Q.
to
COM QXYPRL 30/67/789
Proceed with decontamination in accordance with standing order No
. 5874X.
Afterwards, return to base for further instructions.
Commander Bruce got out of his ground car at the main entrance of the Medical Inspection Center, a huge, temporary building which had been erected in Jokarta Park about five kilometers from the field where
Venturer Twelve
was berthed. Left with a mercifully free day from his seemingly endless round of public relations appearances, he had decided to take a look at how the medical part of the investigation was proceeding.
Leela De Witt looked up from her desk as he entered. "Hallo there, Commander," she said smiling, as she ran a hand through her short-cut, tousled dark hair. "No civic lunch today?"
Bruce grimaced. "Don't mention it. Another week of this and you're going to have to fit me up with a new stomach."
"Make it three weeks, and we may be able to squeeze you in," said Leela De Witt. "Right now we've got all the work we can handle with these examinations. You know what a stickler George Maseba is for detail, and with fifty subjects a day to get through we're on quite a treadmill here. If Huygens had been with us it would have been slightly easier, but as things are there's just no margin to relax."
"Huygens," Bruce repeated the name dourly. "Blasted young fool! Sacrificing everything, his career, his future, for what? Whatever got into him?"
"Whatever it was, it must have been planted deep down in his mind a long time ago," said De Witt. "Otherwise it would have shown up in his psyche processing. Strange how such instabilities can lie dormant until some particular set of circumstances trigger them off ... his longing for security, and his basic discontent with his position in the Corps—those we knew about and could have handled, but for that one frayed link..."
"Discontent with the Corps?" Brace's green eyes glinted. "He was a commissioned officer."
"A
medical
officer," Leela De Witt corrected him. "We're pretty short on medics, Commander. Which means that every now and again we have to compromise. Mostly it works out all right, but this time it didn't. Mind you, for a man like Piet Huygens, it won't anywhere, poor devil. He's the kind who gets dissatisfied, thinks the world owes him anything he chooses to want, and ends up by boozing himself insensible and sleeping with the first available woman. . Then he comes back, weeping tears of remorse, because the world's bitched him again."
"He'll get remorse if I lay my hands on him," Bruce said grimly. "But at the rate the local police are working, there doesn't seem much fear of that."
"That's funny—we've found them most helpful and efficient," Leela De Witt said. "Each morning and afternoon a busload of subjects accompanied by an escort of police turns up for examination, no arguments, all tallying with the list received the previous day."
Bruce shrugged. "Maybe they're just better at organizing that kind of thing than actually searching for fugitives." He glanced at his watch. "Anyway, I take it that you're through with the morning batch? What time is the next one due?"
Leela De Witt rose to her feet. "We've got a couple of hours. I expect you'd like to have a word with George. Come with me and I'll take you to his den."
Surgeon Lieutenant George Maseba was less sanguine than his assistant about the progress of the mass examination. Bruce recognized the signs. Like himself, Maseba was a perfectionist, never content to accept the second rate in any form. As they drank coffee and ate sandwiches brought by the efficient Caiola, Maseba explained the problems of the present operation.
"What it amounts to is this—a routine physical examination, blood analysis, general radiography plates and a very brief psyche assessment—all done with reference to the record card supplied to us by the Keplerian Ministry of Health. In the really important business of genetic analysis there just isn't time to take more than a random sample, and hope that any significant irregularity will be revealed. But, you see, what this amounts to is making a random sample' of a random sample—so that what we are getting is really too small a proportion of the total to be of any real significance."