Maseba switched on the light His listeners remained silent for several moments. Helen felt a cold fear deep down inside herself as she considered the implications of what he had said, and she guessed that the others must be experiencing something similar.
Tom Bruce was the first to break the silence. 'The Kilroys." His voice was sharp-edged with loathing.
"Do you agree, Lieutenant Maseba?" said Magnus.
Maseba shrugged. "Well, let's put it this way. I can't think of any more likely explanation. The chances of such a virus with just such qualities arising naturally are so small as to be hardly worthy of consideration. Add to this the undoubted similarity of this birth to some types of surgically altered humans found by Commander Bruce on Minos IV, and there doesn't appear to be much doubt."
Magnus nodded. "Assuming that your analysis of the situation is correct—and I have no reason to suppose that it isn't—do you have any recommendations?"
Maseba frowned. "I have had very little time to consider ..."
Magnus raised one hand. "My dear Lieutenant, I'm not asking you to commit yourself in any way, but as the person closest to this problem, who has a greater understanding of its complexity than any of us, I consider that even your off-the-cuff reflections may have considerable value."
"So long as it is quite understood that they are off-the-cuff," Maseba said, his expression easing slightly. "Well, before I start I must make it clear that whatever the solution to this situation may be, it isn't going to be produced overnight, so you, Mr. Magnus, and Commander Bruce, can forget about your schedules. For a start, we shall have to get on with the job of trying to develop some method of stamping out Johannsen's disease on Kepler III where, I suspect, it is endemic and fast growing towards epidemic proportions, despite the efforts of the late Doctor Sato and his staff. Just what direction they have been working in we don't know at present, but it will no doubt be possible now to arrange a closer liaison. Whatever they have been doing, it has clearly not been successful so far. For my part, assuming that I were allowed the necessary resources in skilled workers and time, I would mount a three-pronged attack, to explore the possibilities of (a) developing an attenuated strain of the virus, (b) attempting to produce a serum which might provide immunity, and (c) exploring the effects of antiviral agents of the Interferon type on this particular subject"
"That sounds like a good beginning," Magnus said approvingly. "Assuming all the necessary resources and time were made available to you, what would your next step be?"
"One which will require even greater resources than the first one, I'm afraid," said Maseba. "Here we are faced with, a situation in which the usual sampling techniques will just not do. Every human being on Kepler III will have to be subjected to a complete eugenic analysis. Until that task has been completed, we have no way of telling just how widespread this Johannsen's-induced chromosome pattern is among the population."
"And when we do know—will there be any possible way of remedying the situation?"
"By a readjustment of each person's individual chromosome back to the normal human pattern?" Maseba smiled sadly. "I doubt if even the Kilroy genetic engineers could tackle that one."
Helen Lindstrom was conscious of a new fear as she considered the implications of Maseba's latest statement, a fear which, as a woman, she could not ignore. "If such readjustment is, as you suggest, impossible, what then would be your next step?"
The pain on Maseba's dark face made it evident that his own assessment of the situation was the same as her own. "Under those circumstances, the only possible way of ensuring that this aberrated chromosome pattern is not perpetuated will be to carry out an irrevocable sterilization of all human beings carrying the pattern. At the moment it is quite impossible to assess just how many people that is likely to involve—but I would guess that it would entail a significant fraction of the entire population of Kepler III."
A significant fraction. . . . Helen found herself attempting to contemplate just what the abstraction meant. The only way in which she could think of the problem was in terms of the personal suffering of Mia Mizuno and Piet Huygens, and to try to imagine such suffering multiplied by many thousands. It was an impossible task, which left her immersed in an overwhelming sadness that paralyzed all logical thought, so that apart from odd snatches the rest of the discussion failed to register on her mind at all.
When the session was at last over, she left Maseba's office immediately for the quiet, gray sanctuary of her own cabin, where she allowed herself the private emotional release of tears.
Now it was the time of waiting. Bruce was commander of
Venturer Twelve,
United Earth's newest and most powerful ship—in Corps terms he was "the man on the spot." Magnus was the Explorations Division officer—a man of tremendous power and intelligence, capable of being entrusted with the future of an entire planet, Kepler III. But in this extraordinary situation which must involve the entire future of the human race, neither could make the decisions required of them with complete confidence. In the past there had been differences between them, but for the time being at least they were agreed in this assessment of their limitations.
They sat together in the commander's office, awaiting a reply from Earth, Bruce drawing on one of his thin, dark cigars, sensing the nearness of a confrontation which he had awaited since that day on Minos IV long years before, and Magnus, apparently relaxed, leafing through his copy of the report which had been sent back to Earth.
The report, complex, all-inclusive, referring to the situation on Kepler III, with an appended list of recommended suggested action, had been transmitted by sub-etheric direct to Henry Fong, the president of United Earth, a message which, even taped, coded and accelerated for transmission, had run some twenty-five minutes. And now, some two hours later, they were still waiting.
Bruce crumpled the remains of his cigar in an ashtray and jabbed his forefinger at the button on the desk intercom.
"Communications."
"Maranne? Anything through yet?"
"No, commander."
"Not even an acknowledgment?"
"No, sir. I shall contact you direct, the moment we hear."
"Do that" Bruce broke the connection.
"Patience, commander." Magnus looked up from his reading. "We can hardly expect a snap decision from Fong in a question of this magnitude, and allowing for the half hour time lag you must remember he has had less than ninety minutes to study the report. Even then, I suspect he will not reply entirely on his own judgment —there will have to be consultation."
"Maybe so—but they could at least have acknowledged receipt," Bruce said.
"An oversight, possibly."
"Oversight, be damned! It's blasted inefficiency!" snapped Bruce. "I want to get
Vee Twelve
into space, where she can defend herself and Kepler III should the situation arise. Here on Rokoa field she's a sitting duck for any Kilroy ship that appears."
"And has been for the last couple of months," Magnus pointed out mildly. "The situation hasn't changed in its essentials."
"Perhaps not, but our awareness of it has," Bruce said. "Sooner or later they're going to come back here, and when they do I want to be ready for them. The way I see it, every moment's delay increases the probability of a Kilroy ship arriving before we blast off."
"I fully appreciate your feelings, commander," Magnus said. "But you must be patient. One wrong move at this stage and we could have a planet-wide panic on our hands."
Bruce grunted, aid lit another cigar. "So we sit here, with our pants down, waiting for instructions from Earth."
"We have no alternative."
"With no acknowledgment from Earth—that's what bothers me. Sub-etheric is new, we don't have sufficient experience of its use at these distances."
"Possibly not, but it's the best tool we have under the circumstances," Magnus pointed out. "Using ordinary radio we would sit out several lifetimes waiting for an answer."
"I think we should try again. It could be that the message was incorrectly beamed, that it hasn't got through to Earth at all."
"I hardly think that Lieutenant Maranne would be likely to make such an elementary mistake," Magnus said. "She strikes me as being a very efficient young woman. However, if there is no reply of any kind within the next two hours, then perhaps it would be a good idea to send the message again."
Piet Huygens sat alone in his cabin that was now a cell, thinking of Mia who was many miles away in the
small town of Nisuno . . . Mia, whom he had deserted in the hour of her greatest need.
At the time it had not seemed like desertion. When he had' seen the monstrous creature to which she had given birth, he had acted reflexively, knowing that it was his duty to take this thing back to
Venturer Twelve.
Now ... he was beginning to have doubts.
The door of the cabin opened, breaking in abruptly on his train of self-recrimination. The visitor was Leela De Witt. Closing the door behind her, she stood, looking down at him, a half-smile on her thin-featured face.
"Hallo, Piet," she said quietly. "How goes it?"
"I left her," he said. "After all she'd gone through, I just up and left her."
"You did what you had to do," said Leela De Witt. "Thanks to you, we at least know what's going on on this planet at last"
"Like I did my duty, as a Corps officer?"
"Well, didn't you?"
He shrugged hopelessly. "That's only one way of looking at it, isn't it?"
"There's another?"
"Of course there is, you know damned well there is," he said, bitterly. "Faced with a situation I couldn't handle, I came running back to
Vee Twelve
and the Corps—like a kid howling
Mammal"
'That happens to us all at some time or another," De Witt said calmly.
"To you?"
"Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but sometime it could."
He looked at her steadily. He had always liked De Witt, respected her. She at least appeared more human than the average run of Corps officer, more understanding ... or maybe that was just her stock in trade as a psyche specialist. Or maybe it was that she was married to Han De Witt, astrogation officer.
"It was a dream," he said. "We were going to escape
from the Corps, live a new, fulfilled life, just one man and one woman who loved each other. But the dream went sour. Maybe if I'd been able to work, to contribute something. . . . But even then, I'd never have fitted in. They're Mia's people on Kepler III, but they could never have been mine. And now, because of what I did, I don't fit in here, either, do I?"
"Nonsense!" she said, with a touch of sharpness. "You know what 'fitting in' means? It means being needed, having some useful function, doing the job you've been trained to do."
"And you seriously believe that Bruce will ever give me that opportunity?"
"He'll
have
to," she said. "If Maseba's program is to go through—and there is no reasonable alternative— then we shall need every ounce of medical skill we can lay our hands on. A million people to be subjected to complete genetic analysis, a million people to be given immunization shots of an attenuated virus that hasn't even been developed yet. And we've got to do it alone, with the resources at our disposal now, because it will take at least four months for a ship to get here from Earth, and by then it may be too late."
He looked at her, his spirits lightening slightly at the thought of immersing himself in useful activity, then his face clouded again. "And Mia...?"
"Tell us where she is, and we'll have her back here within a couple of hours," said Leela De Witt. "IH personally guarantee that you'll be given an opportunity to talk to her alone, to explain why you did what you did."
"Do you honestly think she'd listen—even if I were capable of explaining?"
"If she loves you—yes, I think she would."
"Love ... I wonder if there really is such a thing? Maybe it's just an itch in the crotch after all, just the idea of having something different, with a different woman..."
"You know that's not true," she said.
"Do I?" He stared at her with eyes dulled by the anguish inside him.
'Tell me where she is, and youH have the opportunity of finding out."
He shook his head. "No. If she wants to come back here—to me—then that has to be her decision. I've betrayed her sufficiendy already."
Lieutenant Yvonne Maranne was twenty-three years old, dark-haired and coffee-skinned, with bedroom eyes and a curvy-curvy body that set crewmen dreaming unattainable dreams. She also had sufficient intelligence to know when to use these assets; and this was not one of those times. Facing Commander Tom Bruce, across his desk, her hair drawn back severely and her face completely innocent of cosmetic aids, she looked almost plain. Almost . . . reflected Charles Magnus, reminis-cently; because for him, at least, it had been proved that there was a great deal more to Yvonne Maranne than met the eye on official occasions such as this.