Now Wait for Last Year Page 9

  They'll be forced to discover a method of breaking the addiction. Their own lives will depend on it, not just mine. And for me alone it wouldn't be worth seeking; even Eric wouldn't have tried, and certainly Corning and his people don't care – no one cares about me, when you get right down to it.

  This was probably not at all what Corning and those above him had in mind in sending her to Cheyenne. But that was just too bad; this was what she intended to do.

  'It'll go in their water supply,' Jonas was explaining. The reegs – they maintain huge central water sources, as Mars did once. JJ-180 will be introduced there, carried throughout their planet. I admit it sounds desperate on our part, a – you know. A tour de force. But actually it's very rational and reasonable.'

  'I'm not criticizing it at all,' Kathy said. 'In fact I think the idea sounds brilliant.'

  The elevator arrived; they entered and descended.

  'Look what the ordinary citizen of Terra doesn't know,' Kathy said. 'He goes merrily on about his daily life ... it would never occur to him that his government has developed a drug that in one exposure turns you into a – how would you put it, Jonas? Something less than a robant? Certainly less than human. I wonder where you would place it on the evolutionary ladder.'

  'I never told you that one exposure to JJ-180 meant addiction,' Jonas said. 'Eric must have told you that.'

  'With the lizards of the Jurassic Period,' Kathy decided. Things with tiny brains and immense tails. Creatures with almost no mentalities; just reflex machines acting out the externals of living, going through the motions but not actually there. Right?'

  'Well,' Jonas said, 'it's reegs that'll be receiving the drug; I wouldn't waste any tears on reegs.'

  'I'd waste a tear on anything,' Kathy said, 'that got hooked by JJ-180. I hate it; I wish—' She broke off. 'Don't mind me; I'm just upset by Eric's leaving. I'll be okay.' To herself she wondered when she would have an opportunity to look for Corning. And get more capsules of the drug. It was clear now that she had become an addict. By now she had to face it.

  She felt only resignation.

  * * *

  At noon, in the neat, modern, but excessively small conapt provided him by the mystifying working of the higher governmental authorities at Cheyenne, Dr Eric Sweetscent finished reading the medical charts of his new patient – referred to throughout the enormous body of writings merely as 'Mr Brown.' Mr Brown, he reflected as he locked the folio back in its unbreakable plastic box, is a sick man, but his sickness simply could not be diagnosed, at least in the customary way. Because – and this was the odd thing, for which Teagarden had not prepared him – the patient had shown, over the years, symptoms of major organic diseases, symptoms not associated with psychosomatic disorders. There had been at one time a malignancy in the liver which had metastasized – and yet Mr Brown had not died. And the malignancy had gone away. Anyhow it was not there now; tests during the last two years proved that. An exploratory operation had even been performed, finally, and Mr Brown's liver had not even shown the degeneracy anticipated in a man of his age.

  It was the liver of a youth of nineteen or twenty.

  And this oddity had been observed in other organs subjected to acute examination. But Mr Brown was failing in his over-all powers; palpably, he was in the process of declining – he looked considerably older than his chronological age, and the aura around him was one of ill health. It was as if his body on a purely physiological level were growing younger while his essence, his total psychobiological Gestalt, aged naturally – in fact failed conspicuously.

  Whatever physiological force it was that maintained him organically, Mr Brown was not receiving any benefit therefrom, except of course that he had not died of the malignant tumor in his liver or the earlier one detected in his spleen, or the surely fatal cancer of the prostate gland which had gone undetected during his third decade.

  Mr Brown was alive – but just barely so. Throughout, his body was overworked and in a state of deterioration; take his circulatory system, for instance. Brown's blood pressure was 220 – despite vasodilators administered orally; already his eyesight had been materially affected. And yet, Eric reflected, Brown would undoubtedly surmount this as he had every other ailment; one day it would simply go away, even though he refused to stay on the prescribed diet and did not respond to reserpine.

  The outstanding fact was simply that Mr Brown had had at one time or another almost every serious disease known, from infarcts in his lungs to hepatitis. He was a perambulating symposium of illness, never well, never functioning properly; at any given time some vital portion of his body was affected. And then—

  In some fashion he had cured himself. And without the use of artiforgs. It was as if Brown practiced some folk-style, homeopathic medicine, some idiotic, herbal remedy which he had never disclosed to his attending physicians. And probably never would.

  Brown needed to be sick. His hypochondriasis was real; he did not merely have hysterical symptoms – he had true diseases which usually turned the patient into a terminal case. If this was hysteria, a variety of a purely psychological complaint, Eric had never run across it before. And yet, despite this, Eric had the intuition that all these illnesses had existed for a reason; they were engendered from the complexity, the undisclosed depths, of Mr Brown's psyche.

  Three times in his life Mr Brown had given himself cancer. But how? And – why?

  Perhaps it arose from his death wish. And each time, Mr Brown halted at the brink, pulled himself back. He needed to be sick – but not to die. The suicide wish, then, was spurious.

  This was important to know. If it was so, Mr Brown would fight to survive – would fight against the very thing he had hired Eric to bring about.

  Therefore Mr Brown would be an exceedingly difficult patient. To say the least. And all this – beyond doubt – functioned at an unconscious level; Mr Brown was certainly unaware of his twin, opposing drives.

  The door chimes of the conapt sounded. He went to answer – and found himself facing an official-looking individual in a natty business suit. Producing identification, the man explained, 'Secret Service, Dr Sweetscent. Secretary Molinari needs you; he's in a good deal of pain so we'd better hurry.'

  'Of course.' Eric dashed to the closet for his coat; a moment later he and the Secret Service man were hiking toward the parked wheel. 'More abdominal pains?' Eric asked.

  'Now the pains seem to have shifted over to his left side,' the Secret Service man said as he piloted the wheel out into traffic. 'In the region of his heart.'

  'He didn't describe them as feeling as if a great hand was pressing down on him, did he?'

  'No, he's just lying there groaning. And asking for you.' The Secret Service man seemed to take it matter-of-factly; evidently for him this was old and familiar. The Secretary, after all, was always sick.

  Presently they had reached the UN White House and Eric was descending by in-track. If only I could install an artiforg, he reflected. It would end all this—

  But it was clear to him, now that he had read the file, why Molinari refused artiforg transplant on principle. If he accepted a transplant he would recover; the ambiguity of his existence – hovering between illness and health – would cease. His twin drives would be resolved in favor of health. Hence the delicate psychic dynamism would be upset and Molinari would be delivered over to one of the two forces striving for mastery within him. And this he could not afford to do.

  'This way, doctor.' The Secret Service man led him down a corridor, to a door at which several uniformed police stood. They stepped aside and Eric entered.

  In the center of the room, in a vast rumpled bed, lay Gino Molinari, on his back, watching a television set fixed to the ceiling. 'I'm dying, doctor,' Molinari said, turning his head. 'I think these pains are coming from my heart now. It probably was my heart all the time.' His face, enlarged and florid, shone with sweat.

  Eric said, 'We'll run an EKG on you.'

  'No, I had that, about ten mi
nutes ago; it showed nothing. My illness is too goddam subtle for your instruments to detect. That doesn't mean it's not there. I've heard of people who've had massive coronaries and have taken EKGs and nothing showed up; isn't that a fact? Listen, doctor. I know something that you don't. You wonder why I have these pains. Our ally – our partner in this war. They've got a master plan which includes seizing Tijuana Fur & Dye; they showed me the document – they're that confident. They've got an agent planted in your firm already. But I'm telling you in case I die suddenly from this ailment; I could go any minute, you know that.'

  'Did you tell Virgil Ackerman?' Eric asked.

  'I started to but – Christ, how can you tell an old man something like that? He doesn't understand what sort of things go on in an all-out war; this is nothing, this seizing of Terra's major industries. This is probably only the beginning.'

  'Now that I know,' Eric said, 'I feel I should tell Virgil.'

  'Okay, tell him,' Molinari grated. 'Maybe you can find a way. I was going to when we were at Wash-35 but—' He rolled in pain. 'Do something for me, doctor; this is killing me!'

  Eric gave him an intravenous injection of morprocaine and the UN Secretary quieted.

  'You just don't know,' Molinari mumbled in a lulled, relaxed voice, 'what I'm up against with these 'Starmen. I did my best to keep them off us, doctor.' He added, 'I don't feel the pain now; what you did seems to have taken care of it.'

  Eric asked, 'When are they going ahead with seizing TF&D? Soon?'

  'A few days. Week. Elastic schedule. It makes a drug they're interested in ... you probably don't know. Neither do I. In fact I don't know anything, doctor; that's the whole secret of my situation. Nobody tells me a thing. Even you; what's wrong with me, for instance – you won't tell me that, I bet.'

  To one of the watching Secret Service men Eric said, 'Where can I find a vidphone booth?'

  'Don't go off,' Molinari said, from his bed, half rising. 'The pain would come back right away; I can tell. What I want you to do is get Mary Reineke here; I need to talk to her, now that I'm feeling better. See, doctor, I haven't told her about it, about how sick I am. And don't you, either; she needs to hold an idealized image of me. Women are like that; to love a man they have to look up to him, glorify him. See?'

  'But when she sees you lying in bed doesn't she think—'

  'Oh, she knows I'm sick; she just doesn't know that it's fatal. You see?'

  Eric said, 'I promise I won't tell her it's fatal.'

  'Is it?' Molinari's eyes flew open in alarm.

  'Not to my knowledge,' Eric said. Cautiously he added, 'Anyhow, I learn from your file that you've survived several customary fatal illnesses, including cancer of—'

  'I don't want to talk about it. I get depressed when I'm reminded how many times I've had cancer.'

  'I should think—'

  'That it would elate me that I recovered? No, because maybe the next time I'm not going to recover. I mean, sooner or later it'll get me, and before my job is done. And what'll happen to Terra then? You figure it out; you make an educated guess.'

  'I'll go and contact Miss Reineke for you,' Eric said, and started toward the door of the room. A Secret Service man detached himself to lead the way to the vidphone.

  Outside in the corridor the Secret Service man said in a low voice, 'Doctor, there's an illness on level three, one of the White House cooks passed out about an hour ago; Dr Teagarden's with him and wants you for a confab.'

  'Certainly,' Eric said. 'I'll look in on him before I make my phone call.' He followed the Secret Service man to the elevator. In the White House dispensary he found Dr Teagarden. 'I needed you,' Teagarden said at once, 'because you're an artiforg man; this is a clear case of angina pectoris and we're going to need an org-trans right away. I assume you brought at least one heart with you.'

  'Yes,' Eric murmured. 'Had there been a history of heart trouble with this patient?'

  'Not until two weeks ago,' Teagarden said. 'When he had a mild attack. Then of course dorminyl was administered, twice daily. And he seemed to recover. But now—'

  'What's the relationship between this man's angina and the Secretary's pains?'

  '"Relationship"? Is there one?'

  'Doesn't it seem strange? Both men develop severe abdominal pains at about the same time—'

  'But in the case of McNeil, here,' Teagarden said, leading Eric to the bed, 'the diagnosis is unmistakable. Whereas with Secretary Molinari no such diagnosis as angina can be made; the symptoms are not there. So I don't see any relationship.' Teagarden added, 'Anyhow this is a very tense place, doctor; people get sick here regularly.'

  'It still seems—'

  'In any case,' Teagarden said, 'the problem is simply a technical one; transplant the fresh heart and that's that.'

  'Too bad we can't do the same upstairs.' Eric bent over the cot on which the patient McNeil lay. So this was the man who had the ailment which Molinari imagined he had. Which came first? Eric wondered. McNeil or Gino Molinari? Which is cause and which effect – assuming that such a relationship exists, and that is a mighty tenuous assumption at best. As Teagarden points out.

  But it would be interesting to know, for instance, if anyone in the vicinity had cancer of the prostate gland when Gino had it... and the other cancers, infarcts, hepatitis, and whatever else as well.

  It might be worth checking the medical records of the entire White House staff, he conjectured.

  'Need me to assist in the org-trans?' Teagarden asked. 'If not I'll go upstairs to the Secretary. There's a White House nurse who can help you; she was here a minute ago.'

  'I don't need you. What I'd like is a list of all the current complaints among members of the local entourage; everyone who's in physical contact with Molinari from day to day, whether these people are staff members or frequent official visitors – whatever their posts are. Can that be done?'

  'With the staff, yes,' Teagarden said. 'But not with visitors; we have no medical files on them. Obviously.' He eyed Eric.

  'I have a feeling,' Eric said, 'that the moment a fresh heart is transplanted to McNeil here the Secretary's pains will go away. And later records will show that as of this date the Secretary recovered from severe angina pectoris.'

  Teagarden's expression fused over, became opaque. 'Well,' he said, and shrugged. 'Metaphysics, along with surgery. We've obtained a rare combination in you, doctor.'

  'Would you say that Molinari is empathic enough to develop every ailment suffered by every person around him? And I don't mean just hysterically; I mean he genuinely experiences it. Gets it.'

  'No such empathic faculty,' Teagarden said, 'if you can bring yourself to dignify it by calling it a faculty, is known to exist.'

  'But you've seen the file,' Eric pointed out quietly. He opened his instrument case and began to assemble the robant, self-guiding tools which he would need for the transplant of the artificial heart.

  SEVEN

  After the operation – it required only half an hour's labor on his part – Eric Sweetscent, accompanied by two Secret Service men, set off for the apartment of Mary Reineke.

  'She's dumb,' the man to his left said, gratuitously.

  The other Secret Service man, older and grayer, said, '"Dumb"? She knows what makes the Mole work; nobody else has been able to dope that out.'

  'There's nothing to dope out,' the first – youthful – Secret Service man said. 'It's just the meeting of two vacuums and that's the same as one big vacuum.'

  'Yeah, some vacuum. He rises to the UN Secretaryship; you think you or anybody else you know could do that? Here's her conapt.' The older Secret Service man halted and indicated a door. 'Don't act surprised when you see her,' he told Eric. 'I mean, when you see she's just a kid.'

  'I was told,' Eric said. And rang the bell. 'I know all about it.'

  '"You know all about it,"' the Secret Service man to his left mocked. 'Good for you – without even seeing her. Maybe you'll be the next UN Secretary after the Mole final
ly succumbs.'

  The door opened. As astonishingly small, dark, pretty girl wearing a man's red silk shirt with the tails out and tapered, tight slacks stood facing them. She held a pair of cutical scissors; evidently she had been trimming and improving her nails, which Eric saw were long and luminous.

  'I'm Dr Sweetscent. I've Joined Gino Molinari's staff.' He almost said your father's staff; he caught the words barely in time.

  'I know,' Mary Reineke said. 'And he wants me; he's feeling lousy. Just a minute.' She turned to look for a coat, disappearing momentarily.

  'A high school girl,' the Secret Service man on Eric's left said. He shook his head. 'For any ordinary guy it'd be a felony.'

  'Shut up,' his companion snapped, as Mary Reineke returned wearing a heavy, blue-black, large button, navy-style jacket.

  'Couple of smart guys,' Mary said to the Secret Service men. 'You two take off; I want to talk to Dr Sweetscent without you sticking your big fat ears into it.'

  'Okay, Mary.' Grinning, the Secret Service men departed. Eric was alone in the corridor with the girl in the heavy jacket, pants and slippers.

  They walked in silence and then Mary said, 'How is he?'

  Cautiously, Eric said, 'In many ways exceptionally healthy. Almost unbelievably so. But—'

  'But he's dying. All the time. Sick, but it just goes on and on – I wish it would end; I wish he'd—' She paused thoughtfully. 'No, I don't wish that. If Gino died I'd be booted out. Along with all the cousins and uncles and bambinos. There'd be a general housecleaning of all the debris that clutters up this place.' Her tongue was amazingly bitter and fierce; Eric glanced sharply at her, taken aback. 'Are you here to cure him?' Mary asked.

  'Well, I can try. I can at least—'

  'Or are you here to administer the – what do they call it? The final blow. You know. Coup something.'

  'Coup de grace,' Eric said.

  'Yes.' Mary Reineke nodded. 'Well? Which did you come for? Or don't you know? Are you as confused as he is, is that it?'