Case and the Dreamer (40 page)

“Let him in.”

The reporter was something of a surprise. About him was none of his employer’s sleaziness, carelessness, or flash. Young, articulate, and bright-eyed, he had done a good deal of homework. He knew quite as much as any layman about the Genetic Research organization and its work, and he knew the towering stature of the man to whom he was talking. He was polite and he was relentless. His name was Szigeti, and after the handshake his opening gun was, “I want the truth about what’s happening.”

“You’ve got it,” said McCambridge easily. “It’s raining.”

Szigeti’s head cocked, birdlike, and his lips twitched. “Perhaps I’d better start over.”

McCambridge smiled and nodded.

“I think there’s an epidemic.”

“I think so, too. There’s an influenza strain called Australian Beta that looks quite ominous. There is herpes simplex II, and I understand that some countries have abandoned mass inoculations and we’re looking at yellow fever again.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“I do?”

Szigeti made a slight motion which encompassed the entire imposing complex of the Genetic Research establishment. “None of those have anything to do with your specialty.”

“What has, then?”

Szigeti leaned forward. “I just keep hearing a story—the same story over and over, but from all kinds of people in all kinds of places. Somebody’s wife or girlfriend gets pregnant, and then she loses it—real soon, second month.”

“It happens.”

“Sure it happens, has happened. But—maybe because I’m a reporter—I get this itch. I mean, if somebody walks down the street knocking his head with his fist every time he passes a lamppost, that’s just another nut. But when six, ten, twenty people start doing it, I get this itch.… Has anybody come to you with this yet?”

“Nobody in the media, if that’s what you mean.”

“That isn’t what I meant, but I’m pleased to hear it.” He had a good smile.

“Does your itch suggest anything else?”

“No. Well, maybe yes. Maybe it’s too early to tell. Maybe what these women, these couples are going through have some spooked; they don’t want to risk it again. But I haven’t heard yet that any woman who has lost one this way has been able to get pregnant again.”

“Not
able?
”

“Well, I guess I can’t really say that. But
you
might. That’s what made me think of coming here.”

“What does her doctor say?”

“Whose doctor? Jesus,” Szigeti breathed. After a moment, he said, “I’ve heard about you, Dr. McCambridge. Now I believe everything I’ve heard. You guessed it. My wife. Mattie. We have one kid. We wanted another; she lost it. There was nothing wrong with her the first time and there’s nothing wrong with her now, or me.”

“Your doctor says.”

“Our doctor says. And he says keep trying.” Szigeti’s mouth twitched at the corner. “We keep trying. Everything. Eight months now since we went through what’s written in her files, what they call SA: spontaneous abortion.”

“I’m sorry,” McCambridge said with all his heart.

“Not your fault,” said Szigeti brusquely. He withdrew a very clean handkerchief and blew his nose and put the handkerchief away. “I guess when you have one thing uppermost in your head day and night, it colors everything you do and think about. So I began looking around me, and I began hearing the same story over and over again.” He wet his lips and leaned forward with that sharp-eyed, birdlike cock of the head. “Working for a scandal sheet has its advantages.
Sure it’s out for sensation even if it has to knock the corners off the truth to get it. And yes, it has done a lot of damage to some good people, but I have to say there’s not as much of that as there was, and there will be less. But you know, I can investigate a lot of things the respectable press wouldn’t touch. Invent a pill that really does cure arthritis and I’ll run the story next week while your kind—sorry, Doctor—hide it away for six years of animal and human tests and evaluations. Meanwhile, millions of people will go on hurting with any real hope. I can maybe get them no pills, but I can get them the hope.… I’m making a speech.”

“It’s a good speech,” said McCambridge. “Make more.”

Szigeti looked startled, then grateful. “If there is a really genuine saucer landing or Bigfoot sighting, I guarantee someone like me will be there first, because I get there fast because I want it to be real, and not like a
Time
or
Newsweek
researcher who gets there slowly because he or she wants it denied. Not only that: who buys my paper? Mostly people checking out at supermarkets—all kinds of people with their eggs and bread and toothpaste and deodorants. They’ll talk to me in ways they never would to reporters from the glossy press. They will tell me what they believe and what they want to believe. I can start more of a groundswell through and through the population before the big-name newsmagazines even know it’s there; and that goes for the wire services and broadcast as well … and sometimes they never do know it’s there until some joker wins an election by a ninety percent landslide, all the polls upset, all the experts with egg on their faces.… The media talk to each other, Doctor. It’s easy to see that the people who write for the
Atlantic Monthly
and the ‘little’ literary poetry magazines write only for the people who read them. It isn’t as easy to see that same thing is true of the national press. I write for everybody there is.”

“I like it. I especially like your use of the word
media
as a plural.” McCambridge leaned back to smile. “I’m glad you came.”

Szigeti’s lips performed a brief whimsical twist. “That,” he said, “I’m really not used to from people like you.”

“There are no people like me,” said McCambridge without arrogance. “Yes, it
is
an epidemic.”

There is an experience that should have its own special term; it is the experience of running up six steps of a five-step flight of stairs, and falling flat at the top. Szigeti, when he had recovered from this metaphorical disorientation, slowly brought out his notebook, by his expression asking permission.

McCambridge waved his hand. “Go ahead.” When the reporter had found his page, he said, “It’s a viroid. A new one.”

“Did you say virus?”

“I said
viroid
. It’s a weird little thing. ‘Little.’ That’s an understatement. I mean
small.…
When viruses were first discovered, they used to call them ‘filterable viruses.’ Nobody had ever seen one; nobody ever did until the electron microscope was invented. They were discovered when it was found that a filter fine enough to strain out bacteria was not fine enough to filter out viruses. It was found that the fluid that came through the filter could cause virus diseases, and for a time it was thought that the fluid itself was some sort of disease-causing solution, a liquid organic chemical. But finally the virus was identified for what it is—a kind of metalife, a sort of living crystal. You know what these filters were made of?”

Szigeti shook his head.

“Porcelain. And if they can get through porcelain, they can get through almost anything, even rubber. That’s the virus. The viroid is
much
smaller. It’s nothing but a little fleck of nucleic acid that acts like a bit of DNA without the protein coding that DNA has. These technicalities aren’t exactly sensational.”

“Not yet.”

“Well then, here it comes. Nobody knows how many, or how many
kinds
of these dustmotes are drifting around in the organic machinery. Most of ’em just get lost. One or two, however, do seem to be specific. There’s one that causes a kind of lymphoma, a kind of leukemia. It does this by slipping into the DNA molecule and replacing one of the—what you might call—the control modules. The thing is, this altered DNA replicates. I mean, all that can happen pretty fast.

“That’s enough background. What we have here is a viroid that drifts around in the blood and lymph systems until it encounters the
unique structure of a fertilized egg, and does something—we don’t know what—to the whole egg factory itself. What happens then is that the fertilized ovum goes on to the uterus in a normal way, attaches itself to the wall, and then goes wild. In six weeks or so the body recognizes that something’s going on that’s not quite right, and right on schedule menstruation—now called SA, spontaneous abortion—occurs, and out comes the damaged fetus. Just as well, too; in no way could it come to term.”

“I get it. But what about my idea that from then on the woman can’t conceive any more?”

“I was coming to that. The other thing this altered DNA does—oh, and it’s such a tiny, minuscule thing—is to slightly change the outer integument of the ripening ovum, so that sperm can’t penetrate it. Maybe it’s tougher, or maybe, like a normal fertilized egg, it sends out a signal that conception has already occurred. Every egg that ripens after that will do the same thing.… I have to say I’m impressed. We have people up to their necks in this research, and not one of them has really understood what this means. And you do.”

“Somebody once used the phrase ‘to think the unthinkable, one must accept the unacceptable,’ ” said the reporter. “I was born with a head that does that, and it hasn’t always been an asset, because it produces mountains of nonsense. Just once in a while it comes up with a nugget.”

“A statistical necessity,” smiled McCambridge. “Shovel enough manure, and you’re bound to discover a horse.”

Szigeti laughed briefly, sobered, and said, “Maybe this comes from a layman’s ignorance, but if this change in the whole body’s DNA happens, doesn’t it become heritable?”

“It does.”

Szigeti placed his hands flat on the pages of his notebook and lowered his head. There was a long silence, in which McCambridge could almost hear the flickering, the penetrations of many points here, and here, and here, of a polished, needle-pointed mental rapier. He was even aware of the very moment when the needle sank into the only possible penetrable target.

Szigeti raised his head slowly. His face was pale. “How contagious is this?”

“Very.”

“How much of it is there by now?”

McCambridge slid open his flat central drawer and withdrew a stack of teletypes. He passed them across to the reporter—eleven pages, a list. “These are the locations of known outbreaks. It is certainly partial. The compilation is made only from the discovery of only one case in each location, and where there is one, there will be more. Yes, my friend, there is an epidemic.”

Szigeti leafed through the sheets. “What’s causing it?” He whispered.

McCambridge shrugged. “What do you like? Sunspots. Pollution. Recombinants escaped from a laboratory. A mad scientist. International terrorists. A superpower out to dominate the world. A master criminal with the secret cure, with blackmail and ransom in mind. Aliens from outer space. Your choice, Mr. Szigeti; all grist to the mill. Especially your mill.”

Szigeti put the teletypes down as if afraid they might explode. “You can’t joke about this. This is the end of the world.”

“Live with it as long as I have and you’ll joke about it. You’ll have to.”

“I’m sorry. Yes, of course.” For at least the third time the reporter looked at McCambridge as if he were seeing something, someone, altogether new. “Where did it begin? You people know where flu strains begin; you give them names: Australia, Hong Kong.”

McCambridge tapped the teletypes. “Can you tell from looking at these?”

“No way. It’s all over.” He looked up. “In more ways than one. It’s all over,” he said again, convincing that within himself which refuse to believe. “There is no cure?”

Again McCambridge answered without answering.

“No prevention?”

“Celibacy. Not,” he added ironically, “that that’s cured anything so far except maybe joy.… And my fairly well-educated guess is that this minuscule little pile of chemicals is going to have its way eventually
even with celibates. Widespread enough, the viroid would be happy to travel on cases and sneezes. Why not? Viruses do, some of ’em. And any exposed male is a carrier. Like with some yeast infections, the male has no symptoms and can still carry. Difference is, with this one, he has no symptoms and he will carry, once exposed.”

“How … how long do we have?”

“The human race? Why, everybody now alive will live a long and happy life. Or a long and unhappy one. Or a short one. Beyond that I have nothing to say.… Mr. Szigeti—don’t look at me that way. I know I handed you a blockbuster, but you’re making me feel like the messenger in the old days bringing bad news, knowing the king would have them killed because of it.”

“I—God, I don’t think you caused the epidemic.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. Now go write your scoop. And—Szigeti—keep in touch. I like you.”

The reporter went to the door, turned, tried to speak, took out his handkerchief, blew his nose, departed.

Top scientist says:

“Honey, you feel all right?”

“I feel just fine.”

“Look here what it says in the paper.”

“… loss of the fertilized ovum in six weeks, and thereafter incapable of …’ but I couldn’t’ve had that; I tell you, I got no plague, I feel fine.”

“Well, it says here there are no other symptoms, that … here it is: ‘otherwise the disease has no other effect.’ ”

“Well, anything to sell the paper, you know that. I tell you, there’s nothing wrong, I feel just fine.… Oh Sammy, I’m scared. I’m so scared.…”

A clothing manufacturer in downtown Los Angeles began production of filmy ladies’ T-shirts emblazoned with the words: I’
VE
H
AD
I
T
.