The White Plague by Frank Herbert
As John stood in the darkness of his room staring at the moonlit lough, he grew aware of movement below him. A dark figure had come out of the shadows on the other side of the original castle ramparts. John recognized Father Michael from the walk. The priest moved aimlessly out to the edge of the paved area and then onto the lawn at the top of the lake. The priest there reminded John of the penance – help them find a cure. He faced away from the window, turned on the room’s lights and undressed for bed. Help them find a cure. Yes, he would have to do it.
Father Michael was facing the building when John’s light went on. He glimpsed John’s profile, the vague movements, saw the light go out.
John’s confession had left a paradoxical residue in Father Michael – an awful weight and a sense of emptiness. The priest was reminded of the moment when he had bid goodbye to another period in his life – the years when he had occupied a corner house in Dublin’s Coombe, serving as spiritual advisor in the Catholic school. He had seen the very house that morning from the armored car when the driver detoured out of the city – the row houses all sadness, everything gone to weed and empty windows. The Church school had been reduced to a granite ruin, its interior emptied by flames.
What he missed most, Father Michael decided, was the boys and girls spewing forth from the school, the noisy romping of their play in that interlude of freedom between classrooms and home. Whenever he closed his eyes and thought about it, Father Michael could summon back their shouts, the loud calls of derision and display, the brief gatherings of faces, the outcries with plans for later, the complaints about chores.
Father Michael looked up at John’s darkened window recalling the effect of the silent boy upon that poor man up there. Doheny had constructed that effect with efficient malice. The boy had been a good choice. He represented an essence of something to be seen in the few boys to be glimpsed in this Irish world. None of the old vigor remained. Was it that boys did not make as much rumpus in the absence of girls? There had been a special kind of happiness under all of that noise that Father Michael feared this world would never again experience. It was not just the boys who had lapsed into something reminiscent of those stone-faced houses in the Coombe – each individual ultimately hidden behind a blank exclusion that tried to betray no hint of the griefs concealed within.
John’s confession changed nothing, Father Michael decided, unless it led the man to right in some small way the terrible wrong that had been done.
And what if there is no cure?
Father Michael felt that his own thoughts had betrayed him. It was an unprincipled thought, not worthy of him. God could not intend such a thing! This was one more example that the old principles were gone, erased by one man’s actions. Father Michael’s newly restored faith stumbled.
Principles!
That was one of those words like responsibility. Such words were private passions exposed, like a corner of yard goods on a shop table, not revealing at all what lay under the stack. Synonyms for things quite different, they were. Faith went about disguised as Principle.
Faith.
It was a grab-bag word, one of those little red-and-black signs bought at a cheap shop. It said: Keep Off the Grass. It said: No Trespassing. It said: Restricted Area – Authorized Personnel Only.
Father Michael buried his face in his hands.
God, what have we done?
They had destroyed innocence for all time, he thought. That was what they had done. He realized then that there must have been an innocence about John Roe O’Neill before tragedy shattered him. Not a perfect innocence, because even then O’Neill had played with terrible powers, the Sorcerer’s Apprentice trying an incantation while the Master was absent. Was God not in His heaven then? Was the loss of innocence God’s intent? There could be no going back from such a loss. That was the most terrifying thing of all. You could not return to virginity.
Father Michael knelt on the wet grass below John’s window then and prayed aloud:
“God restore us. God restore us. God restore us.”
Peard, returning from conferring with Doheny, heard the voice from the lakeside and paused in the shadows between the buildings to stare out at the kneeling figure. The moonlight was bright and Peard recognized Father Flannery. The priest had not yet been told about the little marriage chore in wait for him. Peard debated whether to go out and bring up the subject immediately, but the priest obviously was praying. Peard was of that school which thought of prayer as an extremely personal thing, not to be shared with others. Watching someone pray embarrassed him. Whenever he was in church he only mouthed the prayers silently, aware of all the listeners around him.
It’ll wait until morning, Peard thought.
He hurried off to his quarters, his mind full of what had passed between him and Doheny. It had been a fascinating conversation. Doheny had already been in his office, having sped the short route to Killaloe in a fast convoy with motorcycle outriders. He had been on the phone, talking to Wycombe-Finch, an oddly one-sided conversation with the Englishman apparently not speaking much. Doheny had written on a pad for Peard to read: “Something’s happening over there. Someone’s listening to us and Wye is upset by it.”
“I tell you, Wye, the man’s personality changed in front of our eyes.” Doheny pointed to Peard and gestured at the TV monitor on the corner of the desk, its camera still focused on the library and the position where John had performed at the blackboard. Doheny’s lips formed the words silently: “I watched it.”
Peard nodded.
Wycombe-Finch apparently said something noncommittal or disagreed with Doheny. The latter scowled at the phone.
“The driver watched in the mirror,” Doheny said. “The priest heard his confession, yes. Whatever it was, Father Michael’s absolutely crushed by it.”
Doheny motioned for Peard to take the chair across the desk from him. Peard obeyed, wondering why Doheny dared share this information with the Englishman. It was dangerous. Anyone could be listening.
“Five, yes,” Doheny said. “He says the base series continues to be divisible by four.”
Doheny listened for a moment, then: “What’s unnatural about it? We’ve had it right from the horse’s mouth.”
Wycombe-Finch apparently said something that Doheny found amusing. “Why should he trick us? Anyway, this is beautifully simple: five single extensions to the double helix, all set to lock in at the receptor sites. It’s quite elegant. I tell you, Wye, the man standing there explaining all this to us knew what the hell he was talking about.”
Doheny sounds British when he’s talking to Wycombe-Finch, Peard thought. He was so damned open about this collaboration! It does smack of treason.
Doheny listened, rolling his eyes, then: “Yes, the implications are mind-staggering. Talk to you later, Wye.” He replaced the phone in its cradle before looking up at Peard. “Adrian, have you really considered the kind of tiger we have by the tail?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you considered where this knowledge may lead?”
“We can put the world back together,” Peard said.
Doheny aimed a lidded gaze at the shadows beyond Peard. “Back together? Oh, no, Adrian. Humpty Dumpty is broken beyond repair. Whatever we put together, it won’t be our old world. That one’s gone. Forget it.”
“Two generations, three at the most,” Peard said.
“Don’t talk stupid, Adrian!” There was anger in Doheny’s voice. “Knowledge has always been power but never before to this extent. If we’re not careful we may create a world that’ll make these plague times seem like a country fair by comparison.”
Peard blinked. What did Doheny mean? The world would be short of women for a time, certainly. But if they cured this plague, many diseases might be erased. A black shadow could be removed from mankind’s future.
“I’m for some sleep,” Doheny said. “Our guest is all safely tucked away for the night?”
“Locked in and a guard posted.”<
“If he asks about the lock tell him I ordered it,” Doheny said. “The guard isn’t obvious, is he?”
“All very normal. In mufti and an excuse for being in the halls.”
“There’re some restrictions on his movements during the day,” Doheny said. “He goes nowhere near the safe-tank down there with Kate and Stephen. Somebody has to be with him at all times. Close watch and alert and keep him on the grounds. Unsafe beyond our perimeters. He’ll understand that.”
“What about the priest and the boy?”
“No restrictions there. I want him to run into them frequently. Is old Moone around?”
Peard glanced at his wristwatch. “He’s in quarters right now.”
“Have him bug O’Neill’s room during the day tomorrow.”
“You’re sure he’s O’Neill?”
“Sure as gold in the bank.”
“If he discovers he’s being bugged, won’t that make him suspicious?”
“Moone knows how to do it. Tell Moone to put a recorder on the bug and let me have the tapes daily.”
“You’re staying?”
“I’m staying. You couldn’t get me away from here.”
Peard’s mouth drew into a tight line. He did not like this development. Peard liked his own little empire, his own powers. Doheny’s presence diluted those powers.
“I want no slip-ups,” Doheny said. “No repetition of Kevin O’Donnell’s stupidities. If this fails, it’s on my shoulders. That being the case, my orders will be followed to the letter and I’m staying to see to that.”
Peard nodded, finding this to be expected. If it failed, Doheny could only blame himself.
“Am I billeted in the same room?” Doheny asked.
“Yes.”
“Come along now,” Doheny said. “Let’s get our rest. Tomorrow’s a busy day.”
“I still have the supply lists to go over,” Peard said.
Doheny smiled, but Peard noticed that the smile went no farther than his mouth.
“Very well, then,” Doheny said. He left the room.
Peard waited for several minutes before picking up the telephone and placing a call to Dublin. When it was answered, he identified himself and said: “I think we have Doheny’s ass.”
Until this plague, it was little appreciated how technology, scientific research and development included, speeds up both success and disaster.
– Samuel B. Velcourt
HULS ANDERS BERGEN, not feeling at all like the influential secretary-general of the United Nations, slammed the door of his office and strode across to stop, then leaned with both fists on his desk.
This can’t go on, he thought.
It was almost dark outside, the end of a foggy spring day in a New York City oddly similar to what it had been for more than fifty years – people hurrying to get off the streets before nightfall. Busy streets at this hour had been a mark of the city for as long as Bergen could recall. He could hear the traffic sounds even at this height. New York had always been a noisy city at nightfall, he thought.
Activity still buzzed, too, in the halls and offices outside Bergen’s doors. The UN was a ferment of reports and rumors. The Chinese at Kangsha were not denying that they stood on the edge of an important medical announcement. A brilliant new research team in Brazilian Israel had just that morning made cautious revelation of a cryogenic suspension technique that preserved the life of an infected female indefinitely. The Swiss were reporting “mixed success” with a dangerous chemo-therapeutic approach to the plague.
Trust the Israelis and the Swiss to produce brilliantly unorthodox techniques to meet this problem, Bergen thought. They were alike in this, closing ranks and turning inward for their superb strength.
And what was happening at Huddersfield?
Bergen straightened and flexed the sore muscles of his hands. Bad habit, that, making fists when he was upset.
On top of what had happened this morning in Philadelphia, the British action shutting down all but the most essential communications with the Outside filled Bergen with disquiet. He moved around his desk and seated himself in his fine Danish chair. The traffic sounds were particularly clear in this position.
The differences from BP New York had been mostly accepted, he was told – checkpoints every few blocks, identification scanners, apartment wardens who were supposed to know every occupant by sight. How quickly the outrageous became routine!
Very little partying these days, Bergen knew. More’s the pity. A good relaxing, old-fashioned party was exactly what he needed right now. Take his mind off the problems before him, especially this new one demanding that he make a decision.
Too many unknowns lurked just at the edges of awareness, Bergen thought. Why had Ruckerman been sent to England? Bergen did not buy for a moment the story that an advisor to the President of the United States had been accidentally contaminated. Velcourt was up to something. A canny fellow, Velcourt. Look how quickly he had appeared to jump on the pope’s bandwagon, speaking out against “unbridled science.” Of course, that stand would be reassessed in view of what had just happened in Philadelphia.
Explosion of a gas main followed by an uncontrolled fire – and the pope and nine cardinals were dead. Accident? Bergen thought not. It had the smell of a contrived incident. Too many people were on the streetside rumor mill saying it was God’s judgment for the pope’s attack on scientists. This had been planned and executed by a master assassin with almost unlimited resources. Velcourt’s doing?
Well, the streets were a dangerous place to play that game, as the Soviets had learned to their dismay. Get people used to mobbing up and the many-footed animal could turn against you. Get people accustomed to spreading rumors and the rumor system took on a life of its own. False reports and quack cures were rampant in the streets all over the world, Bergen knew. It required special teams to chase them down and quiet them or… God help them! find that one had been confirmed.
Vinegar baths, for the love of heaven!
There was no doubt at all that the plague was mutating and spreading into animal populations, both feral and tame. Velcourt had said privately that he already was taking actions to preserve certain key species – cattle, pigs, dogs, house cats. Other nations surely were taking similar steps or would be soon. The UN’s “Private Alert” system had spread the word quietly, but it surely would be public knowledge within hours.
What can we do? Will we have to write off all wild species?
Africa was a lost cause. No hope there at all. Some Indian elephants might survive, especially in places like the Berlin Zoological Gardens, which remained intact thanks to the Soviet Union’s Iron Ring buffer zone. The Iron Ring was being hailed as a superb, self-sacrificing Soviet intervention. Bergen shook his head. Only a few years back the Iron Curtain had been generally cursed. Now, the Iron Ring was a boon to mankind.
Bergen leaned his head into his open palms. How scattered his thoughts were! Any diversion at all was welcomed to put off the moment when he had to make his decision. The question was not: Should they try to save the world’s feral populations? It was: How do we break the news that such an effort is impossible? The animals of the sea would not survive. Finis the whale. Finis the gentle porpoise. Finis the amusing sea lion. Finis the happy sea otter. Finis, finis, finis!
Wolf, coyote, badger, prairie dog, kulon, panda, civet cat, hedgehog, antelope, deer…
Good God! he thought. The deer.
Bergen had visions of hunters, already bridling at confinement away from their annual forest orgy, reacting to announcement that the deer was finis. And the elk… the bison.
No more Groundhog Day!
The concept “Endangered Species” had become ridiculous. How could he concern himself with tigers, jaguars, leopards and sea cows when man was now among the world’s most endangered species?
If only people could be united to…
Bergen straightened, holding to this thought, sensing something valuable in it. A volunteer
Morality, yes.
Bergen thought about the report he had been handed only a half hour ago, the thing that had angered him so deeply. He had known for some weeks that elements close to the centers of power in the U.S. Capitol were fomenting unrest among American Muslims. Rumors of a secret base in the Sudan were rampant. There were stories that Muslims from the Sudan were prepared to launch an infective jihad, breaking out of their confinement to kill infidels with sword and knife… and to kill the women merely by breathing upon them.
What had happened to the old human values?
Bergen felt that he fought a lonely battle to preserve something of the old human values – concern for your neighbor, the Golden Rule.
The report he had been handed before storming into his office had identified the source of the local Muslim unrest. Shiloh Broderick! Bergen had come to look upon Broderick as a satanic figure, the essence of all that must be suppressed that the world might be restored to some semblance of its former order. Broderick’s agents were at work in New York City and in five other key centers, including Philadelphia. The report made this undeniable. Had it been Broderick behind the death of the pope? Bergen was prepared to believe it.
How to save the best of human morality in the face of such men?
Bergen could feel the new surge in plague research. They were on the verge of momentous things. Announcement could come momentarily. The good things from the past had to be preserved!
Save the animals.
He began to see the shape of it then: a rallying cry, a diversion to occupy embattled people and get them past this last bad time until the researchers provided a plague cure. The idea gave Bergen something restorative and opened up an answer to his other problem.