The White Plague by Frank Herbert
“The real problem’s the fumes,” Beckett said. “We’ll have to clear the air in there before letting them enter the new chamber.”
Wycombe-Finch stooped to peer at the new weld under the chamber, then straightened. “It must be hellish in there,” he said. “Have you told them how close you are to a cure?”
“I’ve told them we’re working as fast as we can to produce enough for the mother and baby.” He shook his head. “But you know, Wye, if they’re contaminated… we’ll be lucky to get enough of it in time to treat the baby, let alone the mother.”
“How certain are you really that the serum will be effective?”
“Certain schmertain!”
“Are you suggesting it might not work?”
“It works in the test tube.” He shrugged.
“I see. Well, if it doesn’t perform outside the glassworks, Stoney will be rather put out.”
“Fuck Stoney!”
“You Americans! You’re so gross under pressure. I believe that’s why you’ve produced so few really good administrators.”
Beckett clamped his mouth shut to suppress an angry reply. Abruptly, he strode away from the director, dodging two workmen with a sheet of plywood and coming to a stop at a port on the end of the pressure chamber. It was dark inside, all the lights turned off. Could they be asleep? he wondered. He did not see how they could sleep in the presence of all this construction din.
The temporary speaker above the port crackled and Stephen Browder’s voice demanded: “How much longer must we endure this? The baby really needs oxygen!”
“We’re filling a small tank right now,” Beckett said. “We had to find something that would go through the supply lock.”
“But how long?”
“Another hour at the most,” Beckett said. He could see Browder’s face near the port now, a pale shape in the tank’s gloom.
“They’re building with wood?” Browder said. “How can you sterilize…”
“We’ve acids that should do the job.”
“Should?”
“Look, Browder! We’ve identified the pathogen and we’ve killed it outside the human body.”
“And how long before you have the serum?”
“At least thirty-six hours.”
Beckett heard Kate’s voice then demanding: “Stephen! What’re they saying?”
“They’re getting the serum, love,” Browder said.
“Will it be in time?” she asked.
“There’s no certainty you were contaminated, love! They got the weld patch on very fast and the heat, well no germ could live through that.”
But it spreads in the air you breathe, Beckett thought. He said: “We’re working as fast as we can.”
“We’re extremely grateful,” Browder said.
Wycombe-Finch touched Beckett’s shoulder then, shocking him because the construction noise had concealed the man’s approach.
“Sorry,” Wycombe-Finch said. “I’ve just had word that Stonar’s on the telephone. He insists on talking to you.”
Beckett looked out to an open door of the warehouse, a wide space filled with Huddersfield staffers peering in at them.
“They’re hoping for a glimpse of the woman,” Wycombe-Finch said, seeing the direction of Beckett’s gaze. “Shiles has posted guards to keep them out.”
“Yeah.” Beckett started to move toward the door, but was stopped by the director’s hand on his arm. “Bill, go very gently with Stonar. He is a dangerous man.”
“I will.” Beckett nodded toward the staffers at the door. “We’ll have to let them see her sometime soon – a schedule of viewing or something.” “Shiles has it in hand.”
“Better have the viewers searched to make sure no one brings a hammer to crack the viewing port.”
“You don’t really think…” He sniffed. “This is England! We’ve put out the word that all nonessential personnel must stay away. At any rate, there’ll be nothing to see except a big wooden room and a small metal cylinder.”
“What phone can I use for Stonar?” Beckett asked.
“The Ad Building security office just across the way is probably the closest. First on your right after you go through the entrance.”
Beckett strode toward the doorway, where he was delayed by the press of people demanding: “Do they really have a woman over there?”
“And her husband and her daughter,” Beckett said. “You’ll have to stay away from there for now, though.”
“My God, man!” someone said. “Don’t you know how long it’s been since we’ve seen a woman?”
“There’s no way you can see her just yet,” Beckett said, pulling away. He strode quickly across the grounds, leaving the crowd at the doorway, but not before he heard someone say: “Bloody Yanks!”
His way was lighted by the constant pathway-illumination that made the Huddersfield Establishment look like a busy factory complex at night. A great many people were up and around, he noted: More of the curious coming to peer into the warehouse.
The security office also was brilliantly illuminated. A guard sat behind the single small desk in the room, his attention on TV monitors overhead. At Beckett’s request, he pushed a telephone across the desk but kept his gaze on the monitors. The operator put Stonar on the line immediately.
“Where did they have to go to get you?” Stonar demanded. “Land’s End?”
Stonar on the telephone was no more pleasant than Stonar in person, Beckett thought. “I was in the warehouse where we’ve lodged the container with that Irish couple.”
“Is it true she had a baby on the crossing?”
“Yes, a daughter. Premature. It’s going to be touch and go.”
“Two guinea pigs for your serum, though.”
“Truer than you think. They may have been contaminated.”
“Well… I imagine we’ll scare up quite a few women when we announce your serum.”
“You announce nothing until we’ve tested it!”
“Of course, old man! Of course.” Stonar sounded almost pleasant. “You’re pretty confident of the thing, aren’t you?”
“We have our fingers crossed. Those last bits from the Irish really put us over the top. Quintuplicate series in the messenger code, by God!”
“They must’ve gotten that directly from O’Neill. The Irish could never have come up with it on their own.”
“It’s true they have O’Neill himself?”
“Doubt it not, old fellow. Bloody fecal matter hitting the bloody fan, too. Our informants say they’re on the edge of civil war. One lot’s holed up in their research facility, hoping that’ll keep them safe from direct attack. Another lot got most of the northeast coast and quite a few places inland. Typical Irish dust-up!”
Beckett looked at the back of the security guard’s neck, wondering at Stonar’s manner. The man sounded almost chatty, even friendly.
“Where do they have O’Neill?” Beckett asked.
“At that research facility, we’re told. Say, Bill, I’d like you to put me thoroughly in the picture, if you will? I’ve a meeting coming up with the prime minister and the king. Bit of technical jargon, that sort of thing.” Stonar actually chuckled. “Everyone’s quite excited. What is it you’re doing, actually?”
Beckett nodded to himself. The picture had become exceedingly clear. Dangerous man, indeed. He wanted something to impress the brass!
“Our approach is to give a disease to the disease,” Beckett said. “You know that the twenty possible amino acids are sequenced by the genetic code. The plague interferes with that sequencing. It inserts a new message to control the biochemical activity in the cells. The coding of the cells by which they perform their special functions is addressed by the plague, specific messages to specific types of cells. Are you getting all this?”
“Recording it, old chap. It’ll be typed off for me. Do continue, if you please.”
“Use the spiral staircase analogy,” Beckett said. “It’s a genetic disease, at
“Quite.” Stonar managed to sound elated but dry.
“When the new message is injected into a transmitting cell, instead of a quadratic form, it’s carried in a series of fives –”
“That thing they passed along from O’Neill.”
“Quite.” Beckett took delight in imitating Stonar, but apparently the man did not notice. “We knew O’Neill must’ve used a virus as his messenger into the bacterial host,” he said. “And there was that tantalyzing clue of the similarity to granulocytic leukemia.”
“And what does that mean, old chap, if they should ask?”
“It indicates a disruption of the normal genetic coding. The structure of the DNA was certainly changed.”
“Quite. And why doesn’t it attack men?”
“There’s no biochemical niche where the plague pathogen can lock itself in and do its dirty work. It’s broken down by the bodily mechanism that regulates the rate of cellular growth.”
Beckett smiled to himself, realizing he had just passed along all of the essential information that would alert a knowledgeable person to the other things they would be able to do: no more mitotic disease, an end to cancer. They would be able to control the energy-building activities of related RNA. And much more.
“That’s splendid!” Stonar said. “You did a lot of work on the old computer, didn’t you?”
Oh, yes, Beckett thought. Have to bring in the great new tool of science! He said: “We had two things going for us there – a superb new search program developed by a young American plus the image enhancement techniques that NASA produced to improve pictures sent back from space. We were able to see things within the genetic structure never before seen.”
“O’Neill must’ve seen them,” Stonar said.
“Quite,” Beckett said.
“That search program, that was the thing your man Ruckerman brought over?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve had him brought down here, you know? King requested it. Quite a lot of chin-chin to go through about the new world setup.”
Beckett crossed his fingers. “I imagine so.”
“Ruckerman representing your President, the king there, the prime minister – very high-level.”
And you think you’re right in the middle of it! Beckett thought.
“Oh, by the by,” Stonar said. “You may be interested to know that Kangsha is making a guarded announcement about a cure.”
“The Chinese?”
“They’re giving no details but the signal is clear enough, old chap. They use the word cure.” Stonar cleared his throat. “The Japanese and the Soviets are still silent about their progress but Jaipur is saying now that it will be accepting bids within a month for a chemical treatment of the plague that has produced remarkable results. Their words.”
“That is interesting, especially about the Chinese.”
“Pass it along to Wye, will you, old chap?”
“Of course. Give Ruckerman my regards.”
“Certainly. We’re getting along famously, you know? But I must say he’ll never be able to say quite quite as well as you do.”
The connection was broken with a definite “click.”
Before Beckett could hang up, Shiles came on the line. “Wait there, will you, Bill? I’ll be right over.”
Beckett put the phone back in its cradle. Shiles had been listening. What did that mean? Probably nothing much. Everyone took it for granted that all conversations were monitored. But Shiles himself on this one!
A white-smocked figure thrust open the security office door then, ignored Beckett and addressed the guard monitoring the TV screens. “Hey, Arley! There’s a woman in some kind of isolation chamber over in the warehouse!”
“I know,” the guard said. He kept his gaze on the screens above him.
The door slammed as the informant left. They heard his feet running down the hallway.
Beckett looked up at the screens then, realizing that the one on the far right showed a close-up of the end of the Browders’ pressure chamber. Faint movement could be seen through the glass of the port.
Shiles entered presently, his usually neat uniform appearing a bit mussed. He took in the situation in the room and said: “You can leave, Arley. Take over on the upstairs monitors.”
The guard left with one last longing look at the far right screen.
When the door closed, Shiles said, “We were wrong not to let Wye in from the first. He was in my office this evening making guarded allusions to ‘some extremely exciting spinoffs’ from your breakthrough. ‘Give us a handle on no end of things,’ he says.”
“Some bent nose coming up,” Beckett said.
“We could blame it on your frog friend,” Shiles said.
Beckett stared at him with a dawning realization: The English had it bred in the bone never to trust anyone from beyond their shores. And that would include Bill Beckett, Danzas and Lepikov as well as Hupp. How the hell were they supposed to put this world back together in the middle of that kind of shit?
“If there’s any blame, I’ll take it,” Beckett said.
“Awfully decent of you,” Shiles said. “But do you have any real appreciation of the forces we’re holding in check? Blame can be quite dangerous.”
Beckett looked at Shiles with care now, thinking about the sullen, volcanic potential simmering out there, most of it held back poorly by the hope that a cure for the plague might someday be produced. And what was the last estimate on the ratio between the sexes? Eight thousand men for every surviving woman. And the ratio was growing more outrageous by the day.
“Don’t want to have Wye throwing you to the lions,” Shiles said.
How could Wycombe-Finch throw anybody anywhere? Beckett wondered. What was happening here?
“I thought we had an agreement, General,” Beckett said.
“Oh, we do, old chappy! We certainly do. Big necessities coming up, though. Who gets the serum and who doesn’t? Who gets the women, etcetera, etcetera…” He broke off, hearing the door behind him opening slowly.
Wycombe-Finch peered in. “Oh, there you are, Bill. And General!” The director let himself into the office and closed the door. “Thought I might find you two here.”
“What is it, Wye?” Shiles asked.
“Well, actually, it’s rather embarrassing.” He glanced at the monitors, then back to Beckett. “Must bite the bullet, I guess.”
“Please do,” Shiles said.
Wycombe-Finch took a deep breath. “Been listening to your conversation,” he said. “Not the first time. Bad habit of mine. Always has been. Curiosity, y’ know.”
Shiles glanced at Beckett with an “I-told-you-so!” look.
“Stoney and I have shared our views on these matters,” Wycombe-Finch said. “He’ll be bringing the king and the prime minister into the picture tonight, most likely.”
Shiles rubbed at his neck, his attention fixed on Wycombe-Finch’s mouth, a slow flush mounting from beneath his collar.
“Stoney can be quite obtuse at times,” Wycombe-Finch said. “Good political head, though. Knew that when we were in school. Afraid we’ve taken the bit in our teeth, you two.”
“What’ve you done?” Beckett managed.
“Well, very early on, Fin Doheny and I concluded we might need a means of emergency communication. Radio’s a hobby of mine, y’ know? I’ve an American product, CB, you call it. I’ve, ahhh, changed it a bit, of course. More powerful. Antenna in the attic. That sort of thing. Barrier Command popped onto us quite early but they didn’t seem to mind so long as we spoke in the open. I tried to reach old Fin earlier. Can’t raise a peep. Bad show over there, I’m afraid. But Barrier Command now has your serum formula and the jolly old biochemical picture, all that. It’s Stoney’s view that they’ll pass it along to America and all the others.”
“Bloody hell!” Shiles said.
“Don’t want any violence, y’ understand?” Wyco
Beckett began to laugh, shaking his head. “Oh! Wait’ll I break this to Joe!”
“I do believe Lepikov’s already told him,” Wycombe-Finch said. “Amusing fellow, the Russian. Quoted me an old Russian saying: ‘Whoever starts a conspiracy plants a seed.’ Very good, what?”
“You never know what the seed’ll produce until it comes out of the ground,” Beckett said. He looked at Shiles. The flush had completely covered the general’s face.
“Government couldn’t permit a small group to control the fruits, y’ know,” Wycombe-Finch said.
Shiles found his voice. “I swear to you, sir, that my concern was to form a distribution system to make sure it was apportioned equably.”
“Of course it was, old chap!” Wycombe-Finch said.
“There’ll be plenty for everybody,” Beckett said. He looked at Shiles. The general had begun to regain his composure. “And you’re still in command of a sizable chunk of the military, General.”
“But I shall have to obey the government,” Shiles said. “It’s what I was trying to explain to you earlier.”
The Irish always seem to me like a pack of hounds dragging down some noble stag.
– Goethe
THE COMING of the mob ignited a strange new personality in Kevin O’Donnell. Doheny glimpsed it only briefly as he and the other principals of the trial were taken out under guard, ordered locked up in the rooms under the castle’s tower. Kevin turned first to the jury and told them to find weapons. They no longer were jurymen but “soldiers at Armageddon!” A distant look of dreaming took over Kevin’s face. He gestured broadly with his right hand and took up the jar with Alex Coleman’s head, saying:
“Come watch it, Alex! This is the moment for which I was born.”
Herity’s corpse he ignored except to topple the chair and body as he left the room, striding along, Doheny thought, like God Almighty.
As his party was rushed across the courtyard by the guards, Doheny noted that the gates had been closed, shutting off the view of the lough. The cries of the mob were loud in the courtyard, though – an all-male animal demanding its due. Some were screaming: “The cure! Give us the cure!”