The Chromosomal Code, page 9
“So what?”
“I don't know, damn it! I just don't trust them. They're up to something; they must be. They've invaded Earth, conquered the whole damn world, and they've done nothing with it except collect blood samples and give lectures. They must be doing something, with these damn lectures and samples! It is the only thing, absolutely the only thing, that they've insisted on. It's not even just a matter of giving blood or getting out; if you won't go peacefully, they'll force you. They won't force you to eat, or bathe, or do anything, God forbid they might hurt someone or infringe his rights, but they'll get their damn blood samples one way or another, even if they have to come after you with a whole squad of their goons.”
Before Starkman could say anything further the level of sound from the spaceport sank momentarily and he heard approaching footsteps. He rose.
“What is it?” Dr. Curtis asked. He didn't answer.
A moment later a young man, scarcely out of his teens, emerged from the darkness into the pale glow of the remaining lights, walking casually toward them across the bands of paving. Starkman shrank back into the darkness, away from the open door; he was certain, after hearing what Curtis had just told him, that this was an Imperial zombie sent to fetch him, though the youth wore jeans and a gray scoop-necked shirt rather than the usual blue uniform.
The doctor rose, peered past him, and saw the approaching figure. “Hello, Jan!” she called.
Starkman relaxed. “He's not a zombie?”
“No, he's one of us,” she replied.
As the youth drew near he called, “Hello, Janet! Who's this guy?” He had a European accent Starkman couldn't quite place.
“Jan, this is John Starkman. Mr. Starkman, this is Jan Mueller.”
Starkman nodded politely. Mueller stuck out a hand, and he took it briefly.
“Pleased to meet you,” Mueller said.
There was a moment of awkward silence as the three stood in the unlit passage.
“Is Ramón here?” Mueller asked at last. “I was supposed to meet him, but I got held up at work.”
“I don't know; we haven't been inside yet,” Curtis replied.
“Oh.” He looked back and forth uncertainly.
“You go on in,” she told him. “We're still talking.”
He shrugged. “Okay.” He walked past and pushed through the door at the inner end, letting a wash of dim light into the passage for a brief moment.
Starkman watched him go, then turned back to Curtis and said, “All right, so the aliens really are invaders from outer space, and they've taken over the world and are taking blood samples from everyone for some unknown purpose, and you guys are a secret group of revolutionaries who want to drive them away. Right?”
“Right.”
“So why did you bring me here? Why didn't you just pass me through, take a sample of my blood and give me a number like everybody else?”
She hesitated.
“Oh, come on, why me? It was something about my eyes, wasn't it? Have they got a special grudge against freaks? Or did you think that anyone as weird as I am must just naturally be a rebel?”
She flushed slightly, visible even in the dimness. “You don't have to get sarcastic.”
“Why not? Why did you pick me?”
“Look, I'm a doctor, right? They pay me to examine incoming people, and to take their blood samples for them.”
“So?”
“So I know a bit more about it than most people. I know that they've given us special orders to keep a sharp eye out for anyone with unusual physical characteristics, particularly peculiarities involving the eyes; and they've ordered us to keep our mouths shut about it, too. They got very excited the first time I sent them an albino. We're supposed to tag samples 'special' from anyone out of the ordinary; they get rush priority treatment, and there's a lot of fuss whenever we send one up. They also have a thing about yellow in particular; I wasn't there, but I understand the first few cases of yellow jaundice they found had them tripping over each other with excitement, sending doctors every which way and ordering tissue samples and biopsies and whole liters of blood instead of just a few cc's.”
Starkman felt a sudden cold tightness in his gut.
“For years I couldn't figure out what they were doing. Then one day you come in, and I see those eyes of yours, and I'll tell you, Mr. John Starkman, there was no doubt in my mind that whatever they've been looking for, you're it.”
Chapter Six
It had once been a waiting room, but a large, rough table and a metal desk had been added, converting it into a conference room and impromptu headquarters. A motley assortment of couches and chairs surrounded the table and lined the walls; most of them were empty. A television set occupied one corner, a slightly blurry newsman reciting something inaudible from its screen and a battered computer keyboard sitting atop it. There were no windows, but half of the dozen ceiling lights still worked.
There were seven people in the room, counting himself. He had already met Dr. Janet Curtis and Jan Mueller, and after he had allowed himself to be brought in, Starkman was introduced to the other four.
Emilio Suares was the group's nominal leader, a man in his late thirties and a fanatic Brazilian patriot; when Curtis and Starkman entered he was arguing with Mueller about whether Anglos would be permitted to stay in Brazil once the aliens were driven away – the extraterrestrial aliens, at any rate – and order restored. The argument was conducted in English, since Mueller spoke no Portuguese and Suares spoke no Dutch.
Raoul Santangelo was born in New York, but his native language was Spanish, and his English was heavily accented, even more so than Suares'. He was in his early twenties, and had a nasty grin that discomfited Starkman almost as much as the automatic rifle he had slung on his back.
Cheryl Fanshaw was British, and was in Brazil and in this room only because Santangelo was there, it seemed. She spoke as little as possible, preferring to cling silently to her man's arm.
Paulo Ingrao was in his fifties and sat quietly in a corner. He said nothing at all, but merely nodded in acknowledgment when his name was mentioned.
When the introductions had been made, Suares demanded, “Why do you bring this man?”
Curtis answered, “I'll let you see for yourselves. Mr. Starkman, would you take off your glasses?”
“I would prefer not to,” he replied.
“But. . .” Dr. Curtis was momentarily confounded, her effect spoiled. She shrugged. “Suit yourself, then. Anyway, Emilio, he's got yellow eyes, like nothing I've ever seen before. It's got to be him that they're looking for.”
Suares looked Starkman over carefully, then demanded, “Let me see.”
Starkman noticed Santangelo's hand reaching back for his rifle, and decided that he was in no position to argue. He took off his sunglasses.
Suares studied his eyes carefully, standing him under one of the functioning ceiling lights.
“They look real,” he admitted.
“They are real,” Starkman said.
“In that case, Mr. Starkman, as the doctor has said, you are the man that the government has been looking for so energetically. Why?”
He shrugged. “I haven't any idea,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I'm quite sure.”
“You have had no previous dealings with these aliens? None at all?”
“No, nothing; I didn't know they existed until their ship picked me up a few days ago.”
“Maybe it's just a coincidence,” Mueller suggested.
Suares dismissed that possibility with a disdainful wave of his hand. “It can be no coincidence. The government searches for a man with yellow eyes, over and over and with great effort, as Dr. Curtis has told us. Now we find a man with yellow eyes. Can there be two such men?”
“If there's one, there can be two,” Santangelo answered.
Suares considered that for a moment, then asked, “Are there others? Mr. Starkman, have you ever seen another with yellow eyes? Anyone in your family, perhaps?”
“No.”
“Have you ever heard of any?”
He remembered all the doctors he had seen over the years of his childhood, before he got fed up and refused to see any more. They had been excited, or frightened, or merely startled. All had called him unique, or rare; none had ever mentioned anyone else with his particular peculiarity. At least one had said that he'd never heard of such a thing. “No,” he replied.
“Have you heard of others, Raoul?”
Santangelo shrugged.
“Dr. Curtis?”
“No, never. I didn't know it was possible; I thought the aliens were crazy if that was what they were looking for.”
“You see? It can be no coincidence. I thank God that we found you.”
“Why?” Starkman demanded. “You don't know why they wanted me; why should you be so glad that you've found me before they did?”
“Because, Mr. Starkman, if you are here, with us, you cannot be there, with them. While we have you, they do not, and whatever they seek is beyond their grasp.”
“How do you know that's what you want?”
“Mr. Starkman, we are sworn to oppose the alien conquerors. Whatever hampers them aids us.”
“You can't be sure of that. What if they want me to help them with one of their beneficial projects?”
“In that case, we must keep you from them to weaken their support among the foolish people who are impressed by their projects. We want their projects to fail, however great the superficial benefits of those projects may be. To accept gifts from the conquerors only drives humankind deeper into slavery.”
Starkman sat down on a convenient couch to think this over, and from old habit put his sunglasses back on; he felt naked without them when in the presence of other people.
“You seem unconvinced,” Suares continued. “Mr. Starkman, we are at war with alien invaders. In war, many people are hurt. We cannot accept favors from the enemy without weakening ourselves. We must keep from the enemy anything that may be of use in the struggle to defeat us in spirit as we have already been defeated physically.”
“And you think I might be of use to them somehow?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“I don't see how. I've been examined by a dozen doctors, ever since I was born, and there's nothing wrong with me, nothing special at all, except for the color of my eyes. My vision's been tested in every way possible, and it's completely ordinary. I was even tested for ESP, and scored just about dead average. I can't imagine what use the aliens could have for me.” If, he added to himself, they really were aliens. This group seemed to accept their extraterrestrial origin, but he was still not wholly convinced. It was a topic that might bear later discussion.
“We do not know any more than you do,” Suares replied, “but perhaps we may find out. Until then, I ask that you stay here with us, where we may keep you safe from the government's spies.”
Starkman turned to face Dr. Curtis. “You're sure that they were looking for people with yellow eyes?”
“I'm sure,” she replied. “We were told to watch for oddities, and the example they used, every time, was yellow eyes. And they did make a fuss about jaundice cases and albinos. What else could it be?”
“Were they looking for anything else?”
“Not that I know of,” she answered.
“We know little about the aliens' goals here on Earth,” Suares said. “They are seeking a man with yellow eyes, and taking blood samples from everyone alive. They build us cities and plant wonderful farms. Everything they do seems to be for these purposes and nothing else. The cities and farms are surely to keep their slaves happy and to complete their conquest, but why do they take the blood? Why do they seek a man with yellow eyes? We have heard rumors that we cannot confirm that they have done other mysterious things as well. There is a story that they have taken hundreds of archeologists to Europe and Africa to seek for something there. We do not know if that is the truth, or why they should do so. We do not know why they take blood, or why they seek you. We want to know, very much.”
“Why? What are you trying to do?”
“I have told you, we seek to drive the invaders from our world.”
“Then what'll you do?”
Suares paused. “We have not decided that. It is too early to say.”
Mueller snorted. “He wants to send everyone home, and let us northerners freeze while his Brazil rules the world.”
“I do not seek world rule; it is you who wishes that,” Suares retorted.
“That's true enough. The aliens did one good thing in uniting everybody; why mess it up? I say we should maintain a world state, where all nationalities share equally.”
“You think such a state could survive?”
“Of course it could!”
The argument Starkman's arrival had interrupted flared up again. The other revolutionaries joined in, either taking sides or trying to end the debate, and Starkman took the opportunity to wander over toward the television. He hadn't seen one work in years – unless the pictures that had accompanied the orientation lecture had been video of some sort.
This set was familiar enough; either there hadn't been any major design changes, or it was an old one. The same could be said for the keyboard atop it, though he didn't recognize the particular make.
There was no sign of an antenna; the picture was coming in on cable. The channel selector had one hundred and forty-four choices, using a twelve-place dial and twelve buttons.
He knew nothing about what was available, and the news report would probably be as interesting as anything else he was likely to stumble across; he found the volume control and turned up the sound slightly.
A babble of Portuguese came from the speaker as the announcer pointed at a red dot on a map Starkman did not recognize. He turned the volume back down and watched; he knew no Portuguese at all, and could not make out a single word.
The image switched to two men sitting in one-legged plastic chairs on a red-carpeted dais, speaking to each other. It appeared that a talk show had replaced the news.
Disgusted, Starkman turned away, leaving the set on, just as Dr. Curtis managed to put an end to the argument. Now that order was restored, Starkman decided that it was time he reasserted himself. He had been allowing others to drag him wherever they pleased – from Pennsylvania to Brazil, of all places, and from the welcome center to this rundown conference room and the company of a handful of would-be revolutionaries. Throughout, he had been treated as an object, something to be possessed, rather than as an independent human being, and he resented it. He intended to stop being treated as less than he was. He was accustomed to being a freak, but not a possession to be stolen back and forth.
“I have a few questions,” he announced.
Suares, after a final glare at Mueller, said politely, “We will do our best to answer them. We wish to have your willing cooperation.”
“Good.” He glanced at the rifle on Santangelo's back. “I hope that you can give me a reason to cooperate.” He waved toward the empty chairs on every side. “Sit down,” he said.
Everyone except Santangelo sat; the New Yorker leaned against a wall instead, kicking aside a chair that stood in his way.
“You people are an underground resistance movement, right?”
Curtis and Suares both nodded agreement.
“What do you call yourselves?”
“Ah.” Suares glanced at Mueller and Santangelo. “That has been a matter of debate, and we have all agreed that names are unimportant so long as we are unified in purpose. We have decided, provisionally, to call ourselves simply the Underground, a name that leaves open our methods and goals.”
“That's what Suares says,” Santangelo growled. “We're People's Liberation Front, man.”
Curtis was about to protest, but Starkman cut her off. “You can argue later. Dr. Curtis, how did you manage to be there doing examinations when I came along?”
She shrugged. “It was just luck. We've got about half a dozen of our people among the doctors working at the Center.”
“You do?”
“Sure.”
“That's a lot better than I would have expected. Just how big is your organization? I thought maybe it was just the six of you here.”
“Hell, no,” Curtis replied. “There are hundreds of us.”
“Hey!” Santangelo interrupted, “Don't tell this guy too much! He might be some kinda spy!”
“Even if he is not,” Suares agreed, “he may later be captured and interrogated.”
“Okay, okay,” Starkman said, “I won't ask about that. Still, six doctors out of – what is it? – thirty or forty, I'd say; that's pretty good. If you're doing that well with the whole population you could start your revolution tomorrow.”
Curtis glanced at Suares, who shrugged.
“We're not doing that well,” she said. “We've been making a special effort to infiltrate the Welcome Center, and the rest of the government as well, so as we'd be able to keep an eye on what was going on. We've done pretty well there.”
“They don't do any kind of security check?”
“No. I don't think they know we exist; we've been keeping a low profile so far. And all they care about is whether they get their blood samples, and they've got that all monitored.”
“By computer?”
“Yeah, by Max.”
“Who's Max? I heard you talking to him back at the Center.”
“Max is the general-purpose computer network; he's hooked into just about everything everywhere these days. He runs the phones and the video system and handles all the data processing for everybody, including the government. He does the monitoring and keeps the medical records.”
“Why didn't he protest when you told him you wanted privacy?”
She shrugged. “I don't know. We can have privacy when we want; it's a rule. They told us that right at the start, that they didn't want to infringe on our rights.” She snorted. “As if we have any rights any more!”
Starkman made no comment about that, though it seemed obvious to him that whatever the aliens' true purpose might be, they were being as benevolent as they could. These people certainly still had every appearance of freedom and human rights.
