The White Plague by Frank Herbert
For his part, Father Dement dawdled over a fourth slice of toast generously spread with marmalade. The Philadelphia papacy’s ovens produced a quite satisfactory loaf, he thought. And there was no point in rushing through breakfast, no need to hurry after the pope and help him. This pope did things for himself, preferred it that way. His confessor complained that the pope rushed too swiftly through the holy necessities.
Why had the pope questioned the name given by the Irish to their illuminated manuscripts? After all of these months with Pope Luke, Father Dement found he still could be surprised by the man’s vagaries and twists of thought. Perhaps it had something to do with the ceremonies planned for this morning here in Philadelphia.
“We must find our happiness in God.”
Those were the pope’s words. Literature of Despair, that did cast a pall over things. But it need not enter this day’s activities.
In spite of every effort to stop him, the pope was moving ahead with steady determination toward the goal of the Philadelphia Pilgrimage. Some of the new cardinals, especially Cardinal Shaw, had raised objections, siding dangerously with President Velcourt and other leaders who pointed out the problems raised by the plague. Not only were large movements of people, many of them probably infected, frowned upon by governments, but isolated populations tended to react with independent violence against strangers and others trying to enter or pass through sanctuary regions.
Pope Luke remained adamant. Father Dement shook his head to correct himself. No, it was more a quiet persistence than anything else. It was as though God had spoken to him directly and the pope moved in the sureness of such support. That was, of course, a thing internal to the papacy. Father Dement knew that the old belief could not be denied. He shared that belief himself. A pope consecrated moved thereafter within the special aura of God’s concern. The unbroken line of holy succession – Christ to Peter to Pope Luke – carried an intrinsic promise of divine power and love. These very rooms here in Philadelphia, once part of the Church’s regional government, possessed now that sense of divine power which the pope’s presence assured.
Father Dement sopped up the last of his egg with a final bite of toast, drained his teacup and pushed himself away from the table, sighing. An acolyte housekeeper, his face properly subdued in holy awe, stepped from a doorway’s shadows where he had been hovering, glided forward and removed the dishes. Father Dement scowled. The young man was efficient, but it was not the same as the old days, not the same at all.
This pope refused to have female help in the Holy See, however. Were it not the pope himself evincing this behavior, Father Dement would have diagnosed it as pathological. Father Dement shuddered at the thought of the trouble he knew was coming. The pope had yet to say publicly what he said privately, but that could only be a matter of time, perhaps at the culmination of the first Pilgrimage… if that Pilgrimage were allowed to occur.
“God has visited His judgment upon women for a divine purpose. The sin of women has been held up to our view. We have been told clearly to remove that sin.”
Father Dement stood and squared his shoulders. The Red Martyrdom, as the Irish called it – that had always been an ultimate demand that the Church could make upon its people. Father Dement felt, though, that Pope Luke was inviting it. He was profoundly hostile to sexual union and no escaping that. He was antifemale. Father Dement dared to think it. The pope was listening too much to Father Malcolm Andrews, a Protestant minister who had joined the Church and risen to High Council.
Moving to the window where Pope Luke had sat, Father Dement looked out over the city. He sensed a pattern beginning to emerge – the Literature of Despair… the Irish trying to rebuild their old ways… Father Andrews and the antifemale movement gathering momentum around the pope… Only yesterday, Father Andrews had said: “The poets once said we lived, loved and went to the grave in the sureness of posterity. That has been taken from us. One mortal blow and we are bereft, our descendants cut off. Mankind lives now in the immediate presence of the grave. No one can deny the message of this event.”
And Pope Luke had nodded agreement.
Father Dement could hear the household gathering, the councillors, the cardinals, attendants. This day was about to have its official beginning. Sometime today, the pope would enter his private chapel and there pray for divine guidance. Only a handful of those around the pope, Father Dement among them, knew the nature of the crisis for which the pope would seek divine guidance. The argument between Pope Luke and President Velcourt had been going on for some time now but last night’s call from Huls Anders Bergen, secretary-general of the United Nations, had raised the issue to a new intensity. Father Dement, as usual, had listened on an extension telephone, making notes for Pope Luke’s later review.
“I do not believe Your Holiness understands what the President is prepared to do should you defy him,” Bergen had said.
Pope Luke had replied in a mild voice: “One does not defy God.”
“Your Holiness, President Velcourt does not view the issue in quite that light. The President, with the backing of other world leaders, makes a distinction between the political papacy and the religious papacy.”
“There can be no such distinction, sir!”
“I fear, Your Holiness, that in this new political climate there can be and there is such a distinction. The President’s viewpoint, unfortunately, is the popular one. He has the political backing to take violent action should he so choose.”
“What violent action?”
“I hesitate to…”
“Don’t hesitate, sir! Has he intimated what he might do?”
“Not specifically, Your Holiness.”
“But you suspect something.”
“I’m afraid I do.”
“Out with it, sir!”
While he made his notes, Father Dement thought he had never heard such firmness and purposeful command in the pope’s voice. Father Dement had never been more proud of Pope Luke than in that moment.
“Your Holiness,” Bergen said, “it is quite possible that the President will order a missile dropped on you.”
Father Dement gasped. His hand slipped down the pen, creating a scrawl on his note pad. He recovered quickly and made sure he had the words correctly. This would take close review.
“He has said this?” the pope asked.
“Not in so many words, but…”
“But you have no doubt he might react that way?”
“It is one of his options, Your Holiness.”
“Why?”
“There is rising clamor against your Pilgrimage, Your Holiness. People fear it. The President will react politically if you force his hand.”
“A missile is a political reaction?”
Father Dement thought this response by the pope rather uninformed, but perhaps it was only the famous “Holy Naivete.”
“President Velcourt is being petitioned to stop you, Your Holiness,” Bergen said. “It has been suggested that the Philadelphia Military Command move in and make you a prisoner.”
“My Guard would not permit that, sir.”
“Your Holiness, let us be realistic. Your Guard could not hold out for five minutes.”
“The Church has never been stronger than it is today! People would protest.”
“The mood in Philadelphia, Your Holiness, is not universally shared. That is what makes a missile solution so likely, in my view. There is a finality about it against which there could be no argument.”
“Did the President ask you to call me, sir?”
“He asked me to reason with you, Your Holiness.”
“You are deeply concerned?”
“I confess that I am. Although I do not share your religion, you are a fellow human being and every one of these is precious to me.”
Father Dement thought he heard true sincerity in the secretary-general’s voice. Apparently the pope heard this, too, because there was real emotion in his reply.
“I shall pray for
“Thank you, Your Holiness. And what may I tell President Velcourt… and the others concerned?”
“You may tell them that I will pray for divine guidance.”
God of mercy! God of peace!
Make this mad confusion cease!
– Dr. William Drennan, “The Wake of William Orr”
IT WAS dusk outside the White House, that strange Washington dusk which lingered and lingered, blending finally into the brilliant lights of the Capitol’s night.
President Velcourt, looking out at the dusk and the lights coming on, thought he had never before been this tired. He wondered if he had the energy to get up from his chair and go to the cot he’d had moved here into the Oval Office. But he knew if he once put his head on the pillow, necessities would flood his mind. Sleep would not come – only the fatigue and the heart-draining need for action.
What a day this had been!
It had started with Turkwood storming into the office, his expression black, to slide the morning report onto the President’s desk. Sometimes, Velcourt wondered at the advisability of inheriting Turkwood from Prescott. There were occasions when you needed someone who would do the dirty work, but Turkwood seemed tainted, perhaps untrustworthy.
As Turkwood had started to leave, Velcourt had asked: “What’s wrong with you?”
“I just had to fire someone in communications.” Again, Turkwood moved to leave.
“Wait a minute. Why did you fire someone?”
“It’s not your problem, sir.”
“Everything here’s my problem. Why’d you fire this person?”
“He was using the White House channels to talk to friends in the Mendocino Reserve.”
“How the devil could he do that?”
“He got at the satellite code somehow and was just… well, rerouting to his friends.”
“I thought that was impossible.”
“Apparently not. We’re questioning him right now to find out how he did it. He says he just worked it out.”
“What’s his name, Charlie?”
Velcourt felt his pulse quickening. A resourceful and independent mind right here in the White House.
“His name? It’s ahhh, David Archer.”
“Get him in here, Charlie! I want him here sooner than instanter.”
Turkwood knew that tone. He ran out of the office.
David Archer was a pale young man with acne-scarred features and a hunted expression. His movement into Velcourt’s office could only be described as slinking. Turkwood, wearing a grim expression, was right behind him.
Velcourt put on his most affable expression, his warmest tone of voice. “Sit down, David. Is that what they call you? David?”
“They… they call me DA, sir.” He sat facing Velcourt.
“DA, is it?” Velcourt looked up at Turkwood. “You can leave us alone, Charlie. DA looks harmless to me.”
Turkwood left, but there was reluctance in every movement. He spoke from the doorway before closing the door. “You have that nine-fifteen appointment, sir. The phone conference.”
“I’ll be right here, Charlie.”
He waited for the door to close, then: “They’ve been pretty rough on you this morning, eh, DA?”
“Well… it was a stupid thing for me to do, sir.” David Archer sounded brighter once Turkwood was gone.
“Do you want to tell me how you got access to the satellite code, DA?”
Archer looked at the floor and remained silent.
“Before you tell me, DA,” Velcourt said, “I want you to know that you’re back on my staff and I have a promotion in mind for you.”
Archer lifted his chin and looked at Velcourt with an expression of incredulous hope.
His voice warm, Velcourt asked: “How’d you do it?”
“It was fairly simple, sir.” Archer took on an eager expression as he warmed to his explanation. “I could see by the transmittals that it was ninety numbers and a random scrambler. I just programmed a random hunt with a confirming feedback. At off-hours I had the random hunt poking at the satellite channels. It only took about a month.”
Velcourt stared back at the younger man. “You cracked it in a month?”
“My program was self-correcting, sir.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It seeks out its own internal channels to make the job easier. I made a ripple response confirming each correct bit in the code series and the program just made notes, ninety numbers at a time. Our system’s fast, sir. I checked about a million different series every minute.”
Velcourt felt that he had just heard something profoundly important but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “They told me that code was unbreakable, DA.”
“No code’s unbreakable, sir.” He gulped. “And you know there are other people sending private messages. I thought it would be all right. I wasn’t using the channels when there was official traffic.”
“What other people?”
“Well, Doctor Ruckerman, for one. He talks to somebody named Beckett at Huddersfield.”
“Oh, that’s official. Ruckerman’s on Saddler’s staff – science advisors.”
“But he doesn’t log them, sir.”
“Probably too busy. Who else uses the system for personal communications?”
“I don’t want to rat on people, sir.”
“I sympathize. But you don’t think you just ratted on Ruckerman, do you?”
“Well, he is calling Huddersfield.”
“Right! The rest of the calls are probably just as innocuous. I’d like to know who they are, though.”
“Mister Turkwood, sir. And Ruckerman calls his family out in the Sonoma Reserve. It’s always things like that, sir – people calling family or friends.”
“I’m sure you’re right. I’d like you to make me a list of the names, though, and leave it with my secretary. Sign it with your new title: director of White House communications.”
Archer had the good sense to know when he had been dismissed. There was a wide grin on his face as he stood. “Director of White House communications, sir?”
“That’s right. And your job’s a tough one. You are to make sure that when I send out a field order, it goes to the proper person, that it’s confirmed, and that action is taken according to my order.”
Velcourt recalled that conversation with pleasure as he looked out at the gathering dusk. It was one of the few pleasures in an otherwise unpleasant day. Even as he sat here staring with bloodshot eyes out the window, he knew Soviet bombers were diving once more across Istanbul. Satellite observation had detected a vehicle moving near the Stamboul end of the shattered Galata Bridge – whether shifted by some natural cause or driven by human hands the satellite could not determine. So the rubble would be stirred once more, the Golden Horn rocked by tactical nukes, with Beyoglu and Oskudar getting an additional burning to make sure.
How long has it been since I slept, really slept? Velcourt wondered. He could understand how this office had killed Prescott so quickly.
After Archer, there had been the phone conference with the Russians, the French and the Chinese, then the briefing by Ruckerman and Saddler. Ruckerman had passed off the unlogged calls with a wave of the hand. Too damned much red tape! Velcourt had liked this response, but his mind still whirled with the briefing.
What the hell did Ruckerman mean when he said O’Neill must have found a way to produce Poly G in quantity? What the hell was Poly G? Their explanations had only clouded his mind.
And Saddler sitting there, shaking his head and saying that, given other circumstances, O’Neill surely would have qualified for a Nobel!
Sweet Jesus! A molecular biologist goes mad and sets the world on its ear.
Saddler and Ruckerman had sat right here in this office arguing, Saddler demanding: “And where would he get the natural DNA to induce polymerization?”
“Obviously, he found a way!”
What the hell had that meant
“Then how did he make his DNA biologically active?” Saddler had asked.
Velcourt had a memory that could replay such conversations word for word, but replay did not clarify what he had heard.
“Remember he was a pharmacist also,” Ruckerman had said.
Pharmacist. Velcourt knew what that was. He cursed the fact that he had not seen fit to take more science courses in the university. Gobbledygook!
“It’s fantastic!” Saddler had said. “This man was capable of dealing with polymers at the most delicate level.”
“And don’t forget,” Ruckerman had admonished, “he found the placement sites, controlling the precise order in which the monomers were arranged. And we’re talking about giant molecules.”
“Listen,” Saddler had said, “we have to find that man and keep him alive. God! The information in his head!”
Considering the provocation, Velcourt thought his interruption mild. “Would you two gentlemen mind including me in your discussion? You’re supposed to be briefing the President.”
“Sorry, sir,” Saddler said. “But both of us are more than a little awed by how O’Neill obviously handled the peptide-bond formations in –”
“What in the hell is a peptide bond?”
Saddler looked at Ruckerman, who said: “It’s a basic linkage in the DNA helix, Mister President. It proceeds much like a zipper, starting with amino acid valine at one end of the chain, closing bond after bond until the protein molecule is completed.”
“I understand about one fourth of what you just said,” Velcourt said. “Which means I don’t understand a damn thing!” They heard the frustration and anger in his voice.
Ruckerman frowned. “Sir, O’Neill tailored a special virus, perhaps more than one.”
“Certainly more than one!” Saddler said.
“Most likely,” Ruckerman agreed. “He created it to infect certain bacteria. When a bacterial virus infects bacteria, an RNA is formed that resembles the virus DNA and not that of the host. The sequence of the nucleotides in the new DNA molecule is complementary to that of the DNA in the virus.”