Collected Short Fiction, page 581
“But not by surgery.” His bandaged head turned painfully back to Gellian. “That’s a wonderful example of the mutual assistance I was talking about. I was beyond the medical aid of Homo sapiens, but Nan Sanderson saved my life.”
THE haggard man moved toward him with a hungry intentness. “How?”
“She made a special virus,” he whispered. “She rebuilt a common bacteriophage, to feed on cancer cells. That was her first successful mutation—done just in time to save my life.”
“Bacterio—what?”
“ ‘Fleas have smaller fleas to bite ’em—ad infinitum.’ ” The maker grinned wanly. “The bacteriophages are viruses that consume bacteria. Nan modified one of them, to give it an appetite for cancer cells and nothing else.”
“And—did it work?”
“It works,” Messenger said. “The pain is ended in a few minutes. Every malignant cell is killed and dissolved into harmless wastes which are quickly absorbed. Recovery is rapid, because there is no damage to healthy tissue.”
“A wonderful thing!” Gellian breathed eagerly, but then he drew back suspiciously. “If it’s such a perfect cure, why didn’t you publish it?”
“You were pressing us a little too hard,” the maker told him. “The medical profession is skeptical of such radical new treatments—with reason. Any announcement complete enough to win a hearing would have betrayed Homo excellens to you.”
Gellian peered at him sharply. “Do you think I’m that inhuman?”
“You’ve always seemed pretty implacable.” Messenger blinked at him thoughtfully. “We were planning to give Nan’s invention to the public, as soon as we safely could. If we had known that the pain of cancer was the root of your hatred, we might have offered it to you.” Gellian straightened abruptly, his lean hands clenched. He wet his pale lips nervously, and glanced helplessly at the officers behind him. Dane could see the torment of indecision in his hollowed eyes, no doubt as cruel as his physical agony.
“I won’t bargain,” he muttered hoarsely. “I won’t be stalled or duped. If all this is only one more of your cunning lies, you’ll pay for it.”
The maker turned feebly to Dane. “Open the medicine kit. Show him the serum.”
Dane fumbled in the plastic kit, and found a small carton marked Cancerphage. He opened it, to show six tiny glass ampules, packed carefully. Gellian bent to peer at them, trembling with his hope and fear.
“Take the box,” Messenger told him. “The serum should be injected into a vein. One shot is enough. You can prepare more serum from the blood of convalescent patients, taken about twenty-four hours after treatment.”
Gellian reached hungrily for the little carton, but checked himself to peer at Messenger fearfully.
“What do you want in return?”
“Nothing,” the maker said. “If you’re going to wipe out everything else I’ve tried to do, I want you to save the cancerphage. A gift from Homo excellens.” The gaunt man still hesitated, drawn taut in his torment of uncertainty.
“I don’t trust you,” his harsh voice rasped. “If this is all a scheme to infect our forces with your diabolical encephalitis—”
“Mr. Gellian!” the general broke in. “I’d advise you to take the serum. We can arrange to have it tested. And I think we had better have a talk among ourselves—with Mr. Messenger’s permission. Let’s go back aboard.”
Messenger piped and rattled again, with his laborious breathing. “If you’re going to talk about peace,” he gasped, “please remember that we have more to offer than the cancerphage.”
Gellian waited for his words with a restless impatience, but Dane saw an enormous interest in the eyes of the two officers.
“There are other diseases that ought to yield to mutant bacteriophages,” Messenger went on painfully. “The process of genetic engineering can make the whole world over. Incidentally, Dr. Belfast and Miss Sanderson can help you protect society from any other imperfect mutants still alive—some of them are really dangerous!”
The general stood frowning at Messenger.
“We’ll consider that,” he promised uneasily. “We came to assault a fortress, and we’re hardly prepared to make an alliance. You must give us time.”
The three men hurried back across the wreckage to the helicopter.
XVIII
DANE laid Messenger back on the blankets, and felt for the uncertain flutter of his pulse, and hastily gave him another injection. It failed to take effect. His fight for air seemed hopeless, and his faint pulse began to skip. Dane started impulsively toward the helicopter, after aid.
“Don’t!” he gasped. “Come—back!” His bandaged head rocked painfully from side to side on the blankets. “No matter. My work—all done!”
“I’m not sure.” Dane tried to spur his weary will to live. “Gellian still seems pretty hostile.”
“He’s still sick,” Messenger wheezed. “But he’ll soon—be well.”
“And so will you!” Dane bent to prop his head and shoulders higher on a folded blanket, to help him breathe.
He caught Dane’s sleeve, with a sudden frantic strength.
“Listen—” He clung, fighting for breath to go on. “Promise me—you and Nan—you won’t forget—the muddling race—the stupid, noble race that made you.”
“We won’t forget,” Dane whispered. “I promise.”
“Thank you—both.” His convulsive grasp drew Dane closer. “You can’t do much—for me. But you can help—old Homo sap—”
The painful wheezing ceased, and the clutching hand let go. Dane caught it up to feel for the pulse again, but there was none. Stooping to straighten the body and draw the blanket over the sudden repose of that tired face, he felt crushed beneath a total desolation he couldn’t understand.
Death was still a final fact, unchangeable even by genetic engineering. He felt a sick regret that he had failed to delay Messenger’s foreseen fate. In these last hours, he had come to like and admire this stubborn old creator, yet he was surprised by that overwhelming weight of grief.
But I’ve known him longer. The sad words were Nan’s, and he thought for a moment that she had come back. I loved him more.
Dane looked around eagerly, but all he could see was the helicopter with the machine guns still trained upon him, and the tilted waste of shattered basalt, and the high cliffs beneath the mutant tree. Something made him shiver.
“Nan?” he whispered sharply. “Are you—hurt?”
I’m terribly hurt, her words came back. Because I wanted so much to keep him alive—until we could learn enough to make his body as young again as his mind always was. We needed him, Dane. You and I did, and those other mutant children he made. And the old race needed him, too.
“But did you fall?” he gasped. “Are you injured?”
Only by his death, she answered. I’ve come almost to the top of the cliff. Just above me is a cave that leads back to a hollow root of the tree. That is the way to the ship.
He knew then that he was really picking up her thoughts, through their unfolding new capacities. She must have perceived the maker’s death with his senses, and that sudden overwhelming sadness was her own emotion, shared with him.
“I’m coming to you.” He had been waiting too long; the need for action was suddenly imperative in him. “I can’t do anything else for Mr. Messenger, and I believe I can get away through these boulders—”
No, you must wait, her warning thought checked his impulse to flight. You must tell Gellian what we just promised, and arrange for us to begin. There’s a great deal we must do for the maker and the mother race before we attempt any expedition to space, even if this new ship flies.
“I’ll wait,” he agreed. “I’ll talk to Gellian, if he wants to talk—but I’m afraid he wasn’t very much moved by anything Mr. Messenger said. I’m afraid we’ll have to run for it to save our lives. And work the way the maker did, to keep our promises. I think we’ll need a base, somewhere off the Earth.”
We’ll see, she answered. Now I’m going aboard the ship, if I can find that cave and pass those barriers. I want to study the controls, so that we’ll be ready to launch it when we have a chance.
The burden of her sorrow was lifted from him then, as their mental contact broke. He still felt the sharp pain of his own regret, but that was balanced now by the sure knowledge that Nan was safe.
Anxious hope awoke in him, when he saw a man returning from the helicopter. He started eagerly to meet him, expecting word from Gellian, but the man was only a perspiring sergeant, carrying a yellow-painted oxygen bottle with hose and valve and breathing mask.
“For Mr. Messenger,” he said nervously. “General Soames sent me—”
He paused at sight of the blanket-wrapped body.
“You’re a little late,” Dane told him bleakly. “Tell the general Mr. Messenger is dead.”
THE sergeant retreated In confusion, and Dane waited again. He paced the ledge until he was tired, and sat down to rest, and got up to walk the uneven rock again. He was afraid to watch the mutant tree, because the gunners were still watching him, but now and again he groped with his mind for Nan.
He failed to reach her. It must have been their shared grief for the maker, he decided, that created that momentary bridge between their minds. In time, as their new capacities unfolded, that communion of thought might draw them into a perfect oneness unknown to the older race, but now he could only worry and wait.
The engines of the helicopter had idled noisily for a long time, ready for flight, and it almost startled him when they were cut off. Listening in the sudden quiet, he could hear the dull drum of the unseen aircraft circling above.
That ominous sound seemed to rise and fall, for a time, but then it slowly died away, as if the planes were departing. His hopes lifted again, in that deeper silence, but for another endless time he saw no movement about the helicopter.
The clouds grew darker as the sun went down behind them, and he was shivering in a cold wind blowing from the snows above, when at last he saw John Gellian coming back. His heart sank when he saw the way the gaunt man stumbled over the rocks and scraps of wreckage. Hopelessly, he thought Gellian must have tried the cancerphage and been stricken by it.
“The maker’s dead.” He couldn’t keep a tired defiance from his voice. “I guess you’ll have to talk to me.”
“The sergeant told us.” Gellian paused beside the covered body, gray-faced and swaying. “It’s a terrible thing, hounding such a man to death. If I had known the truth—but that’s no use.”
He shrugged, and turned soberly to Dane.
“There’s one favor we want to ask.” His voice was hoarse with weariness, and hushed with a curious humility. “If you and Miss Sanderson don’t object, we want to take the body. Do you mind?” Dane hesitated, but he and Nan could do no more.
“I suppose not,” he said.
“Thank you.” Gellian’s haggard eyes flashed with gratitude. “There’s so little we can do, except to bury him.”
He was swaying where he stood, but Dane saw now that he didn’t look stricken. His face was lined with bone-deep fatigue, and his hollowed eyes dark with remorse, but that sternness of agony was gone.
“The cancerphage?” Dane asked quickly. “Have you done anything with that?”
“General Soames made me the guinea pig.” He smiled a little, and his dark face had a look of peace Dane had not seen there before. “I think he was more impressed than I was, by Messenger’s plea, and he pointed out that I had nothing to lose, whatever it did to me.”
“What did it do?”
“It stopped the pain, as quickly as he promised.” Gellian glanced sadly at the maker’s body. “You wouldn’t know how much that means. Just now I’m weak as a kitten—reaction, I suppose. But I expect to sleep tonight—without drugs—a thing I haven’t done in months.”
“I’m glad,” Dane whispered. “I was afraid it had failed.” He looked at the gaunt man, anxiously. “But what are you going to do about us?”
“I don’t know.” Worry erased Gellian’s tired relief. “Soames and I have been talking with our people in the governments, trying to decide.” He shrugged helplessly. “An appalling problem, because it caught us by surprise. I’m sorry we kept you waiting so long, but even yet we don’t know what to do.”
“What seems to be the trouble?”
“There’s so little we can do.” Gellian hesitated, studying him uncertainly. “And it’s impossible to decide what we ought to offer, because so much depends on you. We can’t settle anything, until we know what you are going to demand.” Dane caught his breath, astonished. “We aren’t demanding anything.”
“You’re entitled to more than we can give,” Gellian insisted urgently. “We can’t do much for Messenger except bury him, but we want to do whatever we can for you—because of him.”
“So you mean to let us live?” Dane’s knees felt suddenly weak. “That’s all we really need.”
“I believe your lives are still in danger, but we’re doing what we can.” Gellian shook his head regretfully. “It will take a long time to uproot all the fear and hatred we’ve been planting. I know we can’t undo all the damage, or bring any of those children back to life. But the witch-hunt is ended.”
DANE felt the hot sting of tears in his eyes. He saw Gellian hesitating, as if doubtful of his reaction, but something hurt his throat so that he couldn’t speak of his relief.
“Operation Survival is being disbanded,” Gellian went on softly. “Our planes are already returning to their bases, and the last of our forces will be out of New Guinea by tomorrow night.”
Dane gave him a thin little smile of gratitude.
“Another thing—” Gellian paused again, uncertainly. “I don’t know what you and Miss Sanderson are planning, but we’re afraid for you to leave New Guinea, now.”
Dane couldn’t help a troubled glance toward the mutant tree. “I don’t know where we’re going.”
“We’re reversing the aims of our organization.” Gellian went on nervously. “The new purpose of the agency will be to get justice for Homo excellens, but it won’t be easy to tear down all the intolerance we’ve built. You will probably be in danger for a long time to come.”
Dane shrugged, with a sudden cheerful confidence.
“If you give us half a chance, I think we’ll get along.”
“We’ve been talking about the company.” Gellian frowned at him, doubtfully. “Mr. Messenger’s company. I called Jones in New York—the banker. He has been a silent supporter of the agency, and now he has agreed to reorganize Cadmus—that is, if you and Miss Sanderson think you can make it pay again.”
“I think we could.” Dane nodded thoughtfully. “Nan will soon be able to make more mules, and other mutations, I’m sure. We’d want the benefits to be spread more widely than they were before. Whatever we do will be for both our races, instead of just for Mr. Jones. But I suppose we do need to make some money—for the children that are still alive.”
“Good!” Gellian seemed relieved, though still uneasy. “Splendid! I’ll tell him that you agree in principle. You can call him whenever you like, to work the details out.”
His tired smile was suddenly too cordial, Dane thought, and his husky voice too loud. Even though the witch-hunt had ended, the chasm of difference remained. Man and not-man, they could be firm allies and warm friends, but never quite alike. Gellian’s good intentions left him unmoved and still alone.
“I think that settles everything, in principle.” Gellian reached quickly to grasp his hand, and quickly let it go, as if faintly uncomfortable in his presence. “Is there anything else?” He turned restlessly toward the helicopter. “Do you want us to take you back to Edentown?”
Dane shook his head.
“Please leave me here,” he said. “Nan’s waiting for me, and we’ve a way to travel. You can leave word that we’ll soon be back again, to work on a new crop of mules.”
The helicopter lifted a few minutes later, carrying the maker’s body and Van Doon’s. Dane watched it out of sight, shivering where he stood in the windy mountain dusk. As soon as it was gone, he started climbing eagerly toward the high black cliffs and the mystery of that mutant tree, glowing faintly blue against the sudden tropic dark, where Nan was waiting for him.
1953
The Cold Green Eye
This is about little Tommy, who left India and. came to Kansas to live with Aunt Agatha. Living on a poverty-ridden farm didn’t bother him much; he had been taught from infancy that the trials of flesh aren’t really important. But when his aunt made a production out of killing a housefly . . . well, that’s the part to remember the next time somebody says, “This is for your own good,” then belts you one in the teeth.
We don’t say that remembering it will patch up your. molars, but it can show you the way to get even. Just take a practical course based on the principles of Karma, the Wheel of Life, Nirvanah, and the Book of Rishabha, and it will be your turn to say, “This hurts me more than it does you!”—and make it stick!
“KANSAS?” The boy looked hard at his teacher. “Where is Kansas?”
“I do not know.” The withered old monk shrugged vaguely. “The spring caravan will carry you down out of our mountains. A foreign machine called a railway train will take you to a city named Calcutta. The lawyers there will arrange for your journey to Kansas.”
“But I love our valley.” Tommy glanced out at the bamboo plumes nodding above the old stone walls of the monastery garden and the snowy Himalayas towering beyond. He turned quickly back to catch the hold man’s leathery hand. “Why must I be sent away?”
“A matter of money and the law.”
“I don’t understand the law,” Tommy said. “But please, can’t I stay? That’s all I want—to be here with the monks of Mahavira, and play with the village children, and study my lessons with you.”
“We used to hope that you might remain with us to become another holy man.” Old Chandra Sha smiled wistfully behind cloth that covered his mouth to protect the life of the air from injury by his breath. “We have written letters about your unusual aptitudes, but the lawyers in Calcutta show little regard for the ancient arts, and those in Kansas show none at all. You are to go.”
