Authors: Frank Herbert
“Sounds like a Yank, Kevin,” a man behind John said. “Even though his name’s O’Donnell, shouldn’t we be feeding him to the fishes?”
“I’ll do the deciding, Muiris,” Aussie-Hat said. He kept his attention fixed on John. “And what brings you to fair Ireland, John Garrech O’Donnell?”
“I’ve a talent needed here now,” John said, and he wondered at the menace he could feel all around him.
“So you’ve come back to the land of your ancestors,” Aussie-Hat said. “From what place in Yankeeland do you come now?”
“Boston,” John lied.
Aussie-Hat nodded. “Ohhh, now, and they’re sayin’ on the wireless that the plague is bad in Boston. How did you leave the place?”
“I was in Europe,” John said. “There’s no going back to Boston now. They’ve put it to the fire.”
“That’s what they say,” Aussie-Hat agreed. “You’ve family in Boston?”
John shrugged.
“In Ireland then?” Aussie-Hat asked.
“I don’t know,” John said.
“Is Ireland the only place you could go, then?”
“You’ve heard about the mobs in France and Spain,” John said.
“To hell or to Ireland,” Aussie-Hat said. “Was that your thinking?”
John swallowed past a lump in his throat. This man in the Aussie hat – Kevin – his voice cut like a knife. There was life or death here at the man’s whim.
“I’ve a talent Ireland needs right now,” John repeated.
“And what might that be?” Aussie-Hat asked. There was no softening of his manner. The machine pistol’s muzzle remained pointed at John’s chest.
“I’m a molecular biologist,” John said. He stared at the shadowy face, looking for a sign that this had registered.
Nothing.
“You’re a molecular biowhatsist?” someone behind John asked.
“If we’re to find a cure for the plague, my specialty is needed,” John said.
“Aw, now, Kevin,” the man behind John said, “he’s come to cure us of the plague! Isn’t that a wonderful thing?”
Several of the men behind John on the float laughed. There was no humor in the sound.
Abruptly, a violent push from behind sent John stumbling toward the machine pistol. Hands grabbed him on both sides, holding him in a painful grip.
“See what’s in his pack,” Aussie-Hat said.
The bag was jerked from John’s grasp and removed to somewhere behind him.
“Who are you people?” John asked.
“We’re the Finn Sadal,” Aussie-Hat said. “They call us the Beach Boys.”
“Look at this, will you, Kevin!” One of the men came from behind John carrying the small case containing his money and the Belgian automatic.
Aussie-Hat took the case and looked into it, holding the machine pistol steady with one hand. “So much money,” he said. “You
were
a wealthy man, John Garrech O’Donnell. What did you intend with such wealth?”
“To help Ireland,” John lied. His mouth felt dry. There was a feeling of rage all around him, something held poorly in check and that might be unleashed against him at any moment.
“And the little pistol?” Aussie-Hat asked. “What of that?”
“If the mob came for me I was going to make them pay,” John said.
Aussie-Hat slipped the case with the automatic and money into a side pocket of his jacket. “Is there any identification on him?”
Hands groped in John’s pockets. He felt his pocketknife removed. The wristwatch was slipped off. His wallet and the forged identification was passed to Aussie-Hat, who cradled the machine pistol in one arm while he examined it. He removed the money from the wallet, stuffed it into his jacket pocket and flipped the wallet into the bay.
The forged passport was handed to him next.
He examined it and flipped it casually after the wallet, saying: “O’Donnell, right enough.” He leaned close to John, cutting out the glare from the lights above him. John could make out the shadowy features now – a narrow face, two pits of eyes, a sharp chin. Rage threatened to send John struggling against the men who held him. Aussie-Hat seemed to see this and a flash of madness passed between them, rage upon rage, insanity upon insanity. It came and was gone so quickly that John wondered if it had actually happened. He felt that something had touched all of him, the visible and the hidden. And he had glimpsed in the other man, as though in a dark mirror, the other half of himself.
Both men drew back from it.
John stood once more in the glare of the lights from the pier. Aussie-Hat’s face lay in the shadows of the hat brim.
Presently, Aussie-Hat said: “I’m inclined to stretch the rule a bit, boys.”
Someone behind John demanded: “Because he’s an O’Donnell like yourself?”
“You’ve a better reason, Muiris?” The machine pistol came up and pointed past John at the man who had asked this question.
John realized then that this man in the Aussie hat was capable of killing his companion, that Aussie-Hat ruled by a killing rage, that he had probably killed more than once to win and hold his position of authority.
Was that what we saw in each other?
“Aw, now, Kevin,” Muiris said, a whine in his voice.
“I’ll kill the next man who questions my authority, or my name’s not Kevin O’Donnell,” Aussie-Hat said.
“Sure, Kevin,” Muiris said, and there was relief in his tone.
“He’s to be stripped bare and taken in the lorry to the usual place,” Kevin O’Donnell said. “Maybe he’ll make it and maybe he won’t. That’s my decision. Does anyone question it?”
Not a sound came from the men around them.
Kevin O’Donnell returned his attention to John. “The coast belongs to the Finn Sadal. Don’t come back to the coast or you’ll be killed on sight. You’re in Ireland now and here you’ll stay, dead or alive.”
Since it was contaminated money O’Neill used to spread his plague, the Swiss escape is remarkable. It demonstrates that the Swiss are essentially turtles. At the first sign of danger, they pull in all vulnerable parts and expose only the hard shell, and I’d wager everything I own that they burned out some pockets of infection within their borders. It’s a thing to remember for later. If people believe the Swiss remained virtually untouched, there’ll be a great deal of useful jealousy scattered around.
– President Adam Prescott
E
NOS
L
UDLOW
, chairman of the Tactical Advisory Committee, placed the thin folder gently on President Prescott’s desk and stepped back one pace. He lifted his attention to the windows behind the President, where a team of gardeners could be seen removing exhausted bedding plants to racked trays for transportation to the White House holding gardens in Bethesda. It was a regular afternoon project these days, this frantic attempt to keep their surroundings alive and beautiful in the midst of death.
The President stared with distaste at the folder, a plain light yellow thing marked Barrier Command. He glanced up at Ludlow, a fat, florid-faced man with cold blue eyes and thinning blond hair.
“Do the Russians agree?” Prescott asked.
“Yes, sir.” Ludlow had a soft, almost creamy voice, which Prescott did not like. “The Russians are pragmatists, if nothing else. Satellites confirm that they’ve lost Kostroma and…”
“Kostroma?” The President looked startled, although he had been briefed earlier on this as “a possibility.” “Isn’t that pretty damned close to Moscow?”
“Yes, sir. And they’ve lost a whole corridor from Magnitogorsk to Tyumen. It may include Sverdlovsk.”
“Any signs of fire?”
“Still smoking.”
“The damned media are still calling it Panic Fire,” Prescott said.
“Appropriate but deplorable,” Ludlow said.
The President glanced at the unopened folder, then once more up at his TAC chairman. “You had family in Boston, didn’t you?”
“A brother, sir – his wife and three children.” Ludlow’s voice lost its creamy tones and sounded strained.
“There was no other choice. We did what the Swiss…” Prescott glanced at the folder. “… and the Russians did.”
“I know.”
The President swiveled his chair and looked out at the departing gardeners. He nodded toward them. “Usually, I hear them working. They were very quiet today.”
“Everyone feels guilty, sir.”
“Jim tells me television is still showing the fires only from a distance,” Prescott said.
“That may be a mistake, sir. It leaves the imagination free to create its own pictures of what’s happened in Boston and the other places.”
The President addressed the window: “Nothing could be worse than the reality, Enos. Nothing.” He swiveled his chair back to the desk. “We’ve decontaminated and replaced the money to the point where we can start lifting the quarantine on the banks.”
“Are we sure he only contaminated money, sir?”
“For the time being. He was diabolical. He sent the contaminated money to charities, to individuals, to committees, to stores and shops. Harrods in London confirms that it filled almost eighty orders from him for ‘gift packages’ to people in Ireland. And the contaminated money was all back in circulation quickly.”
“There’ll be resistance to using paper money, sir.”
“I know. I plan to make a broadcast on the subject. We don’t have enough coins to conduct necessary commerce.”
“Everyone’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, sir.”
“And they’ll continue to wait as long as O’Neill remains at large. You’re right to be cautious, Enos. We only know one way he did it. Our teams have come up with a list of almost two hundred other ways the plague could be spread.”
Ludlow’s lips shaped the figure soundlessly.
“Two hundred?”
“Contaminated birds, for instance,” Prescott said. “And birds don’t check in at the border for decontamination. Then there are weather balloons, proprietary medicines… This O’Neill was also a pharmacist, for Christ’s sake!”
The President opened the folder on his desk and looked at the first page. Presently, he lifted his chin and said: “Such a fragile repository of human life, this planet. All our eggs in one basket.”
“Sir?”
The President straightened his shoulders and fixed the TAC chairman with a steady glare. “Enos, you make damned sure this is a completely joint mission. I want Chinese, Japanese, French, Soviet and German crewmen on every one of our planes, an exact match for the exchange crews we send to them. When the bombs begin to fall on Rome there’ll be hell to pay!”
“Responsibility will be shared equally and completely, sir. They didn’t argue that. Pyotr was almost hysterical. ‘We waste time!’ he kept shouting. This thing spreads even as we talk! Do not waste time!’ “
“Was there argument?”
“The French wanted to be left out. Catholicism’s still a factor there. We didn’t even dare approach the Spanish.”
“Has the pope been informed?”
“Yes, sir. Vatican Radio’s broadcasting a general remission of all sins, the pope’s own voice. And they’re asking listeners to stand by for an important announcement.”
“Do we have enough volunteers for the mop-up?”
“Yes, sir. They’ll be isolated on Cyprus afterward. No women alive there at all.”
“Fire’s the only thing that’s sure,” Prescott said. “Flamethrowers…” A fit of trembling shook his body, then: “The Joint Chiefs say atomic bombs will leave a ring of
questionable
areas, especially the Russian bombs.” Abruptly, he pounded a fist on the desk. “God! I curse the day I ever ran for this office!”
“Someone has to make these decisions, sir. No one questions that.”
Prescott grated his teeth at this platitude, then: “What about India?”
“No word yet, sir. But we sent the joint communiqué. If they haven’t responded by nineteen hundred hours, they know what to expect.”
“There’s no such thing as exclusive sovereignty anymore, Enos. If they have hot spots and fail to report them, we’ll sterilize the whole fucking subcontinent!”
“After Rome, sir, I’m sure they’ll understand.”
“They had better! Isn’t there any good news?”
“Sri Lanka is clean, sir. Quite a number of the Polynesian islands escaped. Even Kauai in the Hawaiian chain – that’s confirmed now. And Alaska – only Anchorage got it and the decontamination is complete there.”
“Decontamination,” Prescott said. “Every outrage has its own euphemism, Enos.”
“Yes, sir.”
Prescott closed the folder on his desk.
Ludlow pointed at it. “Sir, there’s something you should know before the Joint Chiefs come in. The Chinese are threatening to hit India on their own. Apparently, there’s been an exchange of notes – not friendly.”
“Do the Russians know?”
“They’re the ones who informed us. They advised hands off, but say they’ll understand if we interfere.”
“Understand? What the hell does that mean?”
“They’d like us to get our hands dirty, sir.”
“And how the hell could we interfere?”
“Perhaps a diplomatic delegation to…”
“Delegation, shit!”
“I thought you should know, sir.”
Prescott sighed. “Yes, of course. You did the right thing.”
“There’s something else, sir.”
“Won’t it wait?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. The Saudis have closed their borders.”
“Oil?”
“The pipelines remain open, but the pilgrims to Mecca…”
“Oh, Christ!”
“It’s pretty certain they’re contaminated, sir. Big contingents from North Africa and…”
“I thought we quarantined…”
“Not in time, sir. The Saudis want help.”
“What’re the Israelis doing?”
“Their borders are still closed and heavily patrolled. They say they’re doing fine.”
“Do you believe them?”
“No.”
“Do they know about this Saudi thing?”
“We assume so.”
“Give the Saudis whatever help they need.”
“Sir, it’s not quite that –”
“I know the complexity of it! But we’ll lose Japan if they don’t get oil and our own needs…” Again, he shook his head.
“There’s one other thing, sir.”
“Haven’t you done enough?”
“Sir, you’d better know this. The cardinals have voted by telephone conference. James Cardinal MacIntyre will be the new pope when… I mean, when Rome…”