The Puppet Masters by Robert A. Heinlein
The problem was made harder by the fact that the types of diseases native to Venus which were represented by living cultures on Earth were strictly limited in number, i.e., the grain of sand we sought might not be on this beach. To be sure, such an omission could be repaired—in a century or so of exploration and research on a strange planet.
In the meantime there was beginning to be a breath of frost in the air; Schedule Sun Tan could not go on forever.
They had to go back where they hoped the answer was—into Mary’s brain. I did not like it, but I could not stop it. She did not appear to know why she was being asked to submit, over and over again, to hypnotics—or perhaps she would not tell. She seemed serene, but the strain showed—circles under her eyes, things like that. Finally I went to the Old Man and told him that it had to stop. “You know better than that, son,” he said mildly.
“The hell I do! If you haven’t gotten what you want from her by now, you’ll never get it.”
“Have you any idea of how long it takes to search all the memories in a person’s mind, even if you limit yourself to a particular period? It takes exactly as long as the period itself. What we need—if it’s there at all—may be subtle.”
“‘If it’s there at all,’” I repeated. “You don’t know that it is. See here—if Mary miscarries as a result of this, I’ll break your neck personally.”
“And if we don’t succeed,” he answered gently, “you will wish to heaven that she had. Or do you want to raise up kids to be hosts to titans?”
I chewed my lip. “Why didn’t you send me to the USSR as you planned to, instead of keeping me around?”
“Oh, that—In the first place I want you here, with Mary, keeping her morale up—instead of acting like a spoiled brat! In the second place, it isn’t necessary, or I would have sent you.”
“Huh? What happened? Did some other agent report in?”
He stood up and started to leave. “If you would ever learn to show a grown-up interest in the news of the world, you would know.”
I said, “Huh?” again, but he did not answer; he left.
I hurried out of there and brought myself up to date. My one-track mind has never been able to interest itself in the daily news; for my taste this dinning into the ears and eyes of trivia somewhere over the horizon is the bane of so-called civilization and the death of serious thinking. But I do miss things.
This time I had managed to miss the first news of the Asiatic plague. I had had my back turned on the biggest—no, the second biggest—news story of the century, the only continent-wide epidemic of the Black Death since the seventeenth century.
I could not understand it. Communists are crazy, granted—but I had been behind the Curtain enough to know that their public health measures were as good as ours and even better in some ways, for they were carried out “by the numbers” and no nonsense tolerated. And a country has to be, quite literally, lousy to permit the spread of plagues—rats, lice, and fleas, the historical vectors. In such respects the commissars had even managed to clean up China to the point, at least, that bubonic plague and typhus were sporadically endemic rather than epidemic.
Now both plagues were spreading like gossip across the whole Sino-Russo-Siberian axis, to the point where the soviet government system had broken down and pleas were being sent via the space stations for U.N. help. What had happened?
Out of my own mind I put the pieces together; I looked up the Old Man again. “Boss—there were slugs behind the Curtain.”
“Yes.”
“You knew? Well, for cripes sake—we’d better do something fast, or the whole Mississippi Valley will be in the shape that Asia is in. Just one rat, one little rat—” I was thinking back to my own time among the slugs, something I avoided doing when possible. The titans did not bother about human sanitation. My own master had not caused me to bathe, not once. I doubted if there had been a bath taken between the Canadian border and New Orleans since the slugs dropped the masquerade as unnecessary. Lice—Fleas—
The Old Man sighed. “Maybe that’s the best solution. Maybe it’s the only one.”
“You might as well bomb them, if that’s the best we have to offer. It would be a cleaner way to die.”
“So it would. But you know that we won’t. As long as there is a chance of cleaning out the vermin without burning down the barn, we’ll keep on trying.”
I mulled it over at great length. We were in still another race against time. Fundamentally the slugs must be too stupid to keep slaves; perhaps that was why they moved from planet to planet—they spoiled what they touched. After a while their hosts would die out and then they needed new hosts.
Theory, just theory—I brushed it aside. One thing was sure: what had happened behind the Curtain would happen in Zone Red unless we found a way to kill off the slugs, and that mighty soon! Thinking about it, I made up my mind to do something I had considered before—force myself into the mind-searching sessions being conducted on Mary. If there were something in her hidden memories which could be used to kill slugs, possibly I might see it where others had failed. In any case I was going in, whether Steelton and the Old Man liked it or not. I was tired of being treated like a cross between a prince consort and an unwelcome child.
XXX
Since our arrival Mary and I had been living in a cubicle about the size of a bass drum. It had been intended for one junior officer; the laboratory had not been planned for married couples. We were as crowded as a plate of smorgasbord but we did not care.
I woke up first the next morning and made my usual quick check to be sure that a slug had not gotten to her. While I was doing so, she opened her eyes and smiled drowsily. “Go back to sleep,” I said. “You’ve got another thirty minutes.”
But she did not go back to sleep. After a while I said, “Mary, do you know the incubation period for bubonic plague?”
She answered, “Should I know? One of your eyes is slightly darker than the other.”
I shook her. “Pay attention, wench. I was in the lab library last night, doing some rough figuring. As I get it, the slugs must have moved in on our commie pals at least three months before they invaded us.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You knew? Why didn’t you say so?”
“Nobody asked me. Besides, it’s obvious.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Let’s get up; we’ll be late for breakfast.”
Before we left the cubicle I said, “Parlor games at the usual time this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Mary, you never talk about what they ask you.”
She looked surprised. “But I never know.”
“That’s what I gathered. Deep trance with a ‘forgetter’ order, eh?”
“I suppose so.”
“Hmm…well, there will be some changes made. Today I am going in with you.”
All she said was, “Yes, dear.”
They were gathered as usual in Dr. Steelton’s office, the Old Man, Steelton himself, a Colonel Gibsy who was chief of staff, a lieutenant colonel whom I knew only by sight, and an odd lot of sergeant-technicians, j.o.’s, and flunkies. In the army it seems to take an eight-man working party to help a brass hat blow his nose; that is one reason why I left the service.
The Old Man’s eyebrows shot up when he saw me but he said nothing. A sergeant who seemed to be doorman tried to stop me. “Good morning, Mrs. Nivens,” he said to Mary; then to me he added, “I don’t seem to have you on the list.”
“I’m putting myself on the list,” I announced to the entire room and pushed on past him.
Colonel Gibsy glared at me and turned to the Old Man with one of those “Hrrumph-hrrumph-what’s-all-this?” noises. The Old Man did not answer but his eyebrows went still higher. The rest looked frozen faced and tried to pretend they weren’t there—except one WAC sergeant who could not keep from grinning.
The Old Man got up, said to Gibsy, “Just a moment. Colonel.” and limped over to me. In a voice that reach
“And I withdraw it. You had no business exacting a promise from a man about his wife. You were talking out of turn.”
“You’ve no business here, son. You are not skilled in these matters. For Mary’s sake, get out.”
Up to that moment it had not occurred to me to question the Old Man’s right to stay—but I found myself announcing my decision as I made it. “You are the one with no business here—you are not an analyst. So get out.”
The Old Man glanced at Mary and so did I. Nothing showed in her face; she might have been waiting for me to make change. The Old Man said slowly, “You been eating raw meat, son?”
I answered, “It’s my wife who is being experimented on; from here on I make the rules—or there won’t be any experiments.”
Colonel Gibsy butted in with, “Young man, are you out of your mind?”
I said, “What’s your status here?” I glanced at his hands and added, “That’s a V.M.I, ring, isn’t it? Have you any other qualifications? Are you an M.D.? Or a psychologist?”
He drew himself up and tried to look dignified—pretty difficult dressed in your skin, unless your dignity is built in, the way Mary’s is. “You seem to forget that this is a military reservation.”
“And you seem to forget that my wife and I aren’t military personnel!” I added, “Come on, Mary. We’re leaving.”
“Yes, Sam.”
I added to the Old Man, “I’ll tell the offices where to send our mail.” I started for the door with Mary following me.
The Old Man said, “Just a moment, as a favor to me.” I stopped and he went on to Gibsy, “Colonel, will you step outside with me? I’d like a word in private.”
Colonel Gibsy gave me a general-court-martial look but he went. We all waited. Mary sat down but I did not. The juniors continued to be poker-faced, the lieutenant colonel looked perturbed, and the little sergeant seemed about to burst. Steelton was the only one who appeared unconcerned. He took papers out of his “incoming” basket and commenced quietly to work on them.
It was ten or fifteen minutes later that a sergeant came in. “Dr. Steelton, the Commanding Officer says to go ahead.”
“Very well. Sergeant,” he acknowledged, then looked at me, and said, “Let’s go into the operating room.”
I said, “Not so fast. Who are the rest of these supernumeraries? How about them?” I indicated the lieutenant colonel.
“Eh? He’s Dr. Hazelhurst—two years on Venus.”
“Okay, he stays.” I caught the eye of the sergeant with the grin and said, “What’s your job here, sister?”
“Me? Oh, I’m sort of a chaperone.”
“I’m taking over the chaperone business. Now, Doctor, suppose you sort out the spare wheels from the people you actually need for your work.”
“Certainly, sir.” It turned out that he wanted no one but Colonel Hazelhurst. I gathered an impression that he was glad to get rid of the gallery. We went on inside—Mary, myself, and the two specialists.
The operating room contained a psychiatrist’s couch surrounded by a semi-circle of chairs. The double snout of a tri-dim camera poked unobtrusively out of the overhead; I suppose the mike was hidden in the couch. Mary went to the couch and sat down; Dr. Steelton got out an injector. “We’ll try to pick up where we left off, Mrs. Nivens.”
I said, “Just a moment. You have records of the earlier attempts?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s play them over first. I want to come up to date.”
He hesitated, then answered, “If you wish. Mrs. Nivens, I suggest that you wait in my office. No, it will take quite a long time; suppose I send for you later?”
It was probably just the contrary mood that I was in; bucking the Old Man had gotten me hiked up with adrenaline. “Let’s find out first if she wants to leave.”
Steelton looked surprised. “You don’t know what you are suggesting. These records would be emotionally disturbing to your wife, even harmful.”
Hazelhurst put in, “Very questionable therapy, young man.”
I said, “This isn’t therapy and you know it. If therapy had been your object you would have used eidetic recall technique instead of drugs.”
Steelton looked worried. “There was not time for that. We had to use rough methods for quick results. I’m not sure that I can authorize the subject to see the records.”
Hazelhurst put in, “I agree with you. Doctor.”
I exploded. “Damn it, nobody asked you to authorize anything and you haven’t got any authority in the matter. Those records were snitched right out of my wife’s head and they belong to her. I’m sick of you people trying to play God. I don’t like it in a slug and I don’t like it any better in a human being. She’ll make up her own mind whether or not she wants to see them and whether or not I or anybody else will see them. Now ask her!”
Steelton said, “Mrs. Nivens, do you wish to see your records?”
Mary answered, “Yes, Doctor, I’d like very much to see them.”
He seemed surprised. “Uh, to be sure. Do you wish to see them by yourself?” He glanced at me.
“My husband and I will see them. You and Dr. Hazelhurst are welcome to remain, if you wish.”
Which they did. Presently a whole stack of tape spools were brought in, each labeled with attributed dates and ages. It would have taken us hours to go through them all, so I discarded those which concerned Mary’s life after about 1991. I could not see how they could affect the problem and Mary could see them later if she wished.
We started out with her very early life. Each record started with the subject—Mary, that is—choking and groaning and struggling the way people always do when they are being forced back on a memory track which they would rather not follow, then would come the reconstruction, both in Mary’s voice and in other voices. What surprised me most was Mary’s face—in the tank, I mean. We had the magnification stepped up so that the stereo image of her face was practically in our laps and one could follow every change of expression.
First her face became that of a little girl—oh, her features were the same grown-up features but I knew that I was seeing my darling as she must have been when she was very small. It made me hope that we would have a little girl ourselves.
Then her expression would change to match when other actors out of her memory took over. It was like watching an incredibly able monologist playing many parts.
Mary took it with apparent serenity but her hand stole into mine. When we came to the terrible part when her parents changed, became not her parents but slaves of slugs, she clamped down on my fingers so hard that it would have crushed a hand less hamlike than my own. But she controlled herself.
I skipped over the spools marked “period of suspended animation”. I was surprised to find that there were a great many of them; I would have thought that there was nothing to dig out of the memory of a person in such a condition. Be that as it may, I could not see how she could have learned anything during that period which would tell us how the slugs had died, so I left them out and proceeded to the group concerned with the time from her resuscitation to the group concerned with her rescue from the swamps.
One thing was certain from her expressions in the imaged record: she had been possessed by a slug as soon as she was revived. The dead quality of her face was that of a slug not bothering to keep up a masquerade; the stereocasts from Zone Red were full of that expression. The barren qualities of her memories from that period confirmed it.
Then, rather suddenly, she was no longer hag-ridden but was again a little girl, a very sick and frightened little girl. There was a delirious quality to her remembered thoughts, but, at the last, a new voice came out loud and clear; “Well, skin me alive come Sunday! Look, Pete—it’s a little girl!”
Another voice answered, “Alive?” and the first voice answered, “I don’t know.”
The rest of that tape carried on into Kaiserville, her recovery,
“I suggest,” Dr. Steelton said as he took the tape out of the projector, “that we play another one of the same period. They are all slightly different and this period is the key to the whole matter.”
“Why, Doctor?” Mary wanted to know.
“Eh? Of course you need not see them if you don’t want to—but this period is the one which we are actually investigating. From your memories we must build up a picture of what happened to the parasites on Venus, why they died. In particular, if we could tell just what killed the titan which, uh, possessed you before you were found—what killed it and left you alive—we might well have the weapon we need.”
“But don’t you know?” Mary asked wonderingly.
“Eh? Not yet, not yet—but we’ll get it. The human memory is an amazingly complete record, even though unhandy to use.”
“But I can tell you now—I thought you knew. It was ‘nine-day fever’.”
“What?” Hazelhurst was out of his chair as if prodded.
“But of course. Couldn’t you tell from my face? It was utterly characteristic—the mask, I mean. I saw it several times; I used to nurse it back ho—back in Kaiserville, because I had had it once and was immune to it.”
Steelton said, “How about it Doctor? Have you ever seen a case of it?”
“Seen a case? No, I can’t say that I have; by the time of the second expedition they had the vaccine for it. I’m thoroughly acquainted with its clinical characteristics, of course.”
“But can’t you tell from this record?”
“Well,” Hazelhurst answered carefully, “I would say that what we have seen is consistent with it—but not conclusive, not conclusive.”
“What’s not conclusive?” Mary said sharply. “I told you it was ‘nine-day fever’.”
“We must be sure,” Steelton said apologetically.