Authors: John Brunner
"You making a house call on a Saturday?" the guard said, disbelieving.
"Why not?" Doug snapped. "There's a sick kid up there!"
"Well, hell," the guard said, shaking his heavy head with its fringe of grizzled beard. He opened the grille. Doug was halfway to the elevators when the man called after him.
"Say, doc!"
He glanced around.
"Doc, do you take-uh-colored patients?"
"Sure, why not?"
"Well, doc…" Emerging shyly from his booth, as though afraid of being reprimanded. He was much older than he had looked at first sight, Doug realized; well preserved, but probably in his upper sixties.
"It's my wife. Nothing you can like put a finger on, if you see what I mean, but all the time she gets these like fits of weakness, so if it don't cost too much…?"
Ending on a rising, hopeful note.
Doug tried not to sigh. Without seeing the woman he could make his diagnosis: poor food leading to sub-clinical malnutrition, poor water leading to recurrent minor bowel upsets, general debility and the rest.
But he said, "Well, I'm in the phone book. Douglas McNeil."
"Thanks, sir! Thanks a million!"
He was still upset by the encounter when he entered the Masons'
apartment. Denise was so eager to greet him, she had all the locks open ready, the door on a mere security chain, and didn't bar it as she rushed him inside.
"Doug, thank God you're here! I've had to change Harold's bed twice since I called you!"
Resignedly he followed her, and it was what he'd expected. Three minutes, and he'd written out a prescription the duplicate of-how many?-maybe ninety in the past week. Washing his hands, he recited the usual advice concerning diet and not worrying about minor stomach cramps.
At which point Philip showed up demanding the verdict.
"Not serious," Doug said, throwing his towel at a hook.
"Not serious! Doug, they've had to close schools all over the city, and every kid in this building seems to have it, and most of the adults, and-"
"And babies sometimes don't recover," Doug snapped. "I know!"
He caught himself. "Sorry," he added, passing a tired hand over his eyes. "This is my sixth call today for the same thing, you know. I'm worn out."
"Yes, of course." Philip looked apologetic. "It's just that when it's your own kids…"
"Yours aren't babies any more," Doug pointed out. "They should be fine in another few days."
"Yes, but…Oh, I'm being stupid. Say, can you spare the time for a drink? There are some people here you might like to meet."
"I guess I need it," Doug said wryly, and followed him.
In the living-room: a plump, pretty, light-colored girl, perched shyly on the edge of a chair, and next to her a man several shades darker who sat with the characteristic stiffness that Doug instantly assigned to a back-brace. His face was vaguely familiar, and the moment Philip made the introductions he remembered where he'd seen it.
"Mr. Goddard! Very glad to meet you, very glad indeed!" And to Denise as she handed him his regular vodka rickey, "Oh, thanks."
"Are your children okay, Mrs. Mason?" the girl asked.
"Doug says they will be in a few days."
"What is it, this-this epidemic?" Pete inquired. "I had a touch of it myself last week. Which made for-uh-problems." A self-conscious grin.
"I don't get around too fast right now, you see."
Doug smiled, but it was forced. Dropping into an armchair, he said,
"Oh…Basically it's an abnormal strain of
E. coli.
A bug that ordinarily lives in the bowel quite happily. But the strains vary from place to place, and some get altered by exposure to antibiotics and so forth, and that's why you get diarrhea. It's the same really as
turismo,
or as they call it in England 'Delhi belly.' You always adjust to the new strain, though. Sooner or later."
"But don't babies…?" That was Jeannie, hesitant. "Well, yes, they are vulnerable. They get dehydrated, you see, and of course their food squirts through the system so fast they-well, you get the picture."
Pete nodded. "But why is there so much of it right now? It's all over the country, according to the news this morning."
"Somebody told me it was being spread deliberately," Jeannie ventured.
"Oh, really!" Doug snorted and sipped his drink. "You don't have to invent enemy agents to explain it, for heaven's sake! I'm no public health expert, but I imagine it's a simple vicious circle process. You know we're at the limit of our water resources, don't you?"
"No need to tell me," Denise sighed. "We have a don't-drink notice in force right now. Matter of fact, I suspect that's why the kids caught this bug. They're so proud of being able to go to the sink and help themselves to a glass of water…Sorry, go on."
"Well, figure it yourself. With eight or ten million people-"
"Eight or ten
million
?" Philip burst out.
"So they say, and we can't have hit the peak yet. Well, obviously, with that many people flushing the pan ten, fifteen, twenty times a day, we're using far more water than usual, and at least half this country is supplied with water that's already been used."
He spread his hands. "So there you are. Vicious circle. It'll probably drag on all summer."
"Christ almighty," Philip said.
"What are you worrying about?" Doug said sourly. "You and Alan got your water-purifier franchise, didn't you?"
Philip scowled. "That's a sick joke if ever I heard one. Still, I guess you're right-look on the bright side. And it's nice to be one of the few who have a bright side to look on…By the way, Pete!"
"Yes?"
"Didn't Alan say he was going to recommend you to Doug?"
"You're a friend of Alan's too?" Doug put in.
"Sure." Pete nodded. "Going to work for him."
"Oh, he's been just great!" Jeannie exclaimed. "Found us an apartment, and everything. That's why we came to Denver today, to look it over, and it's fine."
"Not like having a house," Pete said. "But." He contrived a sketch for a shrug despite his back-brace.
Jeannie frowned at him. After a moment she added, "One thing I didn't ask, though. Mrs. Mason-"
"Denise, please!"
"Uhm-sure, Denise. Do you have much trouble with rats?"
"No, why?"
"They're bad right now in Towerhill. I been bitten myself. And the other day…" Her voice trailed away.
"What?" Philip prompted.
"They killed a baby," Pete grunted. "Just chewed it to death."
There was a pause. At length Doug drained his glass and rose.
"Well, I don't know of any plague of rats in Denver," he said. "But I guess you may have a little trouble with fleas and lice. Around half the houses I go to on my rounds have them now. Resistant, of course."
"Even to the-uh-strong ones?" Philip said, using the common euphemism for "banned."
"Oh, especially those," Doug said, smiling without humor. "These are the survivors. They've taken the worst we could offer and come back jeering. The only thing they care about now is a direct hit with a brick, and I'm not too sure about that…Well, thanks for the drink. I'd better be on my way."
He was amused to notice, as he took his leave, that all of them were trying not to scratch themselves.
But he didn't find it so funny when a psychosomatic itch overtook him too in the elevator going down.
…
officially attributed to the debilitating effects of enteritis
among troops newly arrived from this country. This marks the
greatest single territorial gain for the Tupamaros since the
uprising began. No comment on the battle was available from the
president this morning owing to his indisposition. The epidemic
continues to gather momentum in all states except Alaska and
Hawaii, and many major corporations are working with a skeleton
staff. Public services have been heavily hit, especially garbagemen
and sewage workers. Bus and subway schedules in New fork have
been cut back, on certain routes to as few as one per hour, while
the chief of police in New Orleans has forecast an unprecedented
crime-wave owing to the sickness of more than half his men.
Trainite demonstrations this morning
…
"These potatoes look as limp as I feel," said Peg, attempting a joke as she set down the bucket of compost she'd brought to hoe in among the sickly plants. It was her first day back at work after her recent bout of enteritis, and she was still weak and a trifle lightheaded, but she couldn't stand any more sitting around.
"Yes, I guess what they mainly need is some sun," Zena said absently. Rolling up her sleeves, she frowned at the high faint gray cloud that masked the entire sky.
Peg heard the words and experienced a sudden moment of enlightenment: a sort of rapid astral projection. She seemed, for a flash, to be looking down at herself, not only seeing herself in space but in time also.
It was over, and she was staring at the by now familiar mountains that surrounded the wat, and the curious irregular roofs of the buildings which themselves were like mountains, dome next to pyramid next to cube. One of the community's architects had studied in England under Albam.
"Peg, honey, you all right?" Zena demanded.
"Oh, sure," Peg insisted. She had swayed a little without realizing.
"Well, don't you overdo it, hear? Take as much rest as you need."
"Yes, of course," Peg muttered, and picked up her hoe and began to do as she'd been shown: make a little pit next to each of the sickly plants, scoop in an ounce of compost, cover it over. Later they'd water the fertilizer in.
Before she had finished the first hole, however, she heard a sharp exclamation from Zena and glanced around to discover-with a tremor of nausea-that she was holding up something thin and wriggly. "Hey, look at this!" she cried.
Peg complied, reluctantly, and after a moment could think of nothing better to say than, "It's an odd color for a worm. Aren't they usually pink?" This thing was a livid color, somewhat bluish, as though it were engorged with venous blood.
"Yes," Zena muttered. "I wonder if it's been affected by some sort of poison, same as the potatoes, or if…" One-handed, she used her hoe to expose the roots of the nearest plant.
"Well, there's our answer," she said grimly. The tubers, which by now should have been a fair size, were only an inch or two in diameter and riddled with holes. And each hole was surrounded by a patch of blackish rot.
"If that's what's ruining this whole field…" Zena turned slowly, surveying the acreage they'd put down to potatoes last fall. "We been taking it for granted it was-well, something in the rain, or the ground. It usually is."
Yes. It usually is.
And then, staring at the wriggling thing, Peg was struck by a horrible suspicion.
"Zena! That-Oh, no. They were a different color." "What?"
"That gallon of worms Felice brought. I thought for a moment…"
Peg shook her head. "But we looked at them in the store, and they were pink."
"And they came from Plant Fertility," Zena said. "We've had their insects before. Got our bees from them, in fact." There were a dozen hives around the wat. "So…Well, we sure as hell don't have enough garlic juice to treat an area this size. So I guess all we can do is call the State Agriculture Board and find out if there's something we can plant between the rows to attract the little buggers. Come on, let's go back inside. No future in this."
"Zena!" Peg said abruptly.
"Yes?"
"I think I'm going to move on." How to explain that fit of insight a moment ago? She'd viewed herself as it were in the role of a passenger on the stream of time. She'd been content for weeks to let the wat insulate her, because life here was so undemanding and harmonious.
Meanwhile, though, Out There, bad things were happening. Like the bad thing which had drawn her here. Like death and destruction. Like poison in the rain which killed your crops.
"I was expecting that," Zena said. "It isn't your land of life, is it? You need competition, and we don't have it here."
"No, not exactly." Peg hunted for the right words, leaning on her hoe. "More-more making a mark. More wanting to do
one
thing to change the course of the world, instead of preparing to survive while the world does its worst."
"That was why you became a reporter, I guess."
"I guess so." Peg pulled a face. She was more relaxed here, more able to reveal her feelings in her expression or with her body. The wat made its own herb wines, to traditional European recipes, and sold them not only to summer tourists but by mail, and the other night there had been a party to try out an especially successful brew. She'd danced for hours and felt great-just before she went down with enteritis. And no man had plagued her to get in the sack with him, except that poor disorganized boy Hugh whom you couldn't really count as a man yet, and perhaps because of that she'd recently found herself wondering whether she might not try it again and enjoy it this time. On the few previous occasions she'd been as locked up as a bank vault That was the point at which young Rick turned up, and they showed him the wriggling insect and he took authoritative charge of it, promising to compare it with all the pictures of pests he could find in the library.
On impulse, she added, "Rick, I'm thinking of moving on."
"Go back to work on a paper?" he asked absently, examining the insect with concentration.
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Ah-hah. Come back and see us often, won't you?" He folded a handkerchief carefully around the creature and made off. A moment before going out of sight, he called back, "And see if you can find out how my dad was poisoned, please!"
It was like being doused in ice water. She stood frozen for long seconds before she was able to say, "I didn't tell him Decimus was poisoned, Zena!"
"Of course not"
Though…" She had to swallow. "Though I'm certain be must have been."
"I think so, too," Zena said. "But we all are."