Space Service Page 20

  “Hi, Brother!”

  The friendly words splashed like cool water on the white blaze of his anger. He—Waskewicz—stood in front of the bedroom mirror and his face looked out at the man who was himself, and who yet was also Jordan.

  “Hi, Brother!” he said. “Whoever and wherever you may be. Hi!”

  Jordan looked out through the eyes of Waskewicz, at the reflected face of Waskewicz; and it was a friendly face, the face of a man like himself.

  “This is what they don’t tell you,” said Waskewicz. “This is what they don’t teach in training—the message that, sooner or later, every stationman leaves for the guy who comes after him.

  “This is the creed of the Station. You are not alone. No matter what happens, you are not alone. Out on the rim of the empire, facing the unknown races and the endless depths of the universe, this is the one thing that will keep you from all harm. As long as you remember it, nothing can affect you, neither attack, nor defeat, nor death. Light a screen on your outermost doggie and turn the magnification up as far as it will go. Away out at the limits of your vision you can see the doggie of another Station, of another man who holds the Line beside you. All along the Frontier, the Outpost Stations stand, forming a link of steel to guard the Inner Worlds and the little people there. They have their lives and you have yours; and yours is to stand on guard.

  “It is not easy to stand on guard; and no man can face the universe alone. But—you are not alone! All those who at this moment keep the Line, are with you; and all that have ever kept the Line, as well. For this is our new immortality, we who guard the Frontier, that we do not stop with our deaths, but live on in the Station we have kept. We are in its screens, its controls, in its memory bank, in the very bone and sinew of its steel body. We are the station, your steel brother that fights and lives and dies with you and welcomes you at last to our kinship when for your personal self the light has gone out forever, and what was individual of you is nothing any more but cold ashes drifting in the eternity of space. We are with you and of you, and you are not alone. I, who was once Waskewicz, and am now part of the Station, leave this message for you, as it was left to me by the man who kept this guard before me, and as you will leave it in your turn to the man who follows you, and so on down the centuries until we have become an elder race and no longer need our shield of brains and steel.”

  “Hi, Brother! You are not alone!”

  And so, when the six ships of Patrol Twenty came drifting in to their landing at the Station, the man who waited to greet them had more than the battle star on his chest to show he was a veteran. For he had done more than win a battle. He had found his soul.

  7 SOLAR SYSTEM QUARANTINE DOCTOR: David Munroe

  Death wears more than one disguise.

  What honors in the form of strange plagues or

  unknown life forms may unsuspecting ships bring out of

  space from the worlds beyond? Between

  this menace and the public stand such men

  as Dr. David Munroe.

  For the Public

  BY BERNARD I. KAHN

  The laughter was thin, sardonic and, to his hypertrophied sense of mental receptivity of the moment, acutely painful. Dr. David Munroe walked slowly back to his desk. It was a ritual to laugh, to accept such orders with a scornful grin.

  The public demanded an insouciant bravery, callous indifference, perfect self-abasement in those destined to die for its own interests. The clerical crew were laughing at him now. They had to, or they would experience his own mind-chilling fear and know the symptoms of agonizing frustration.

  Dr. David Munroe sat behind his desk, fingers whitened at their tips as he clasped and unclasped the elastic plastic arms of his chair; his mind a tight vortex of numbing, impotent anger. The flow of anger clutching his abdomen was like the painful waves of a gastric spasm.

  He wanted to scream a defiant refusal at those powers representing the public who casually changed the order of his life and intended to dispose of its planned process with such indifference. But he put the heresy of such thoughts into the inner deeps of his subconscious mind. He had been too well schooled, too artfully conditioned by these same powers for anything but the most shallow type of emotional protest. The pain of it was: he knew it. Knew he could do nothing.

  His thin fingers jabbed nervously at the phone box on his desk. The fatuous face of his blonde-haired secretary appeared immediately. “Get the Office of Industrial Endocrinology.” His mouth tightened to a narrow ridge of indignant resentment. “This call is not for the public. Tell the Lunar Operator to put the charges on my bill.”

  “Yes, sir.” The secretary’s face was bovinely expressionless. “You wish to speak to Dr. Roberta Wallace?”

  As she blanketed the phone he could hear the thin, derisive laughter of the clerks, heard one of them saying: “. . . the boss won’t be alive much longer.”

  He stared at the various colored phones, panels and screens which brought him visual, vocal contact with the subsidiary activities of his quarantine station, as if he had never seen them before. His fingers caressed the communication tapes emerging from the desk as if touching them for the last time. The metronomic clicking of the filing cabinet behind him was now as depressing as a requiem.

  By sheer effort of will he channeled his mind into cortico-thalamic patterns, sought analysis of his emotional chaos. It wasn’t, he realized, the terror that comes with the foreknowledge of impending death which aroused such high emotivity. Nor was it the anger in protest of having to go to Exotic for the third time, an order which was in violation of the mores of the Bureau. He was far too well integrated for such thalamic emotions. It was the cerebration of the fear of disease before death.

  It was the cold unescapable fact that by all the laws of chance he would be diseased before he did die; and the lack of the knowledge of what disease it might be, perhaps a new one, was cause enough for his cortical unrest.

  He leaned back in the softly padded chair, placed sweaty palms together, realized he had to adjust his affairs. He curtained his cold, black thoughts with reality, wondered with a wry sense of humor to whom he would will his ski car.

  The gong of the operations vodaphone erupted sharply into his mind. His schizoid preoccupation vanished instantly as he punched knobs on his phone, brought the duty officer to focus.

  “S. S. Sylvestrus; PF-704: Interglobal Lines is standing off requesting pratique. Senior Medical Officer is Dr. Guerdian Lilly: Professional 32-56-2134. You will contact the ship and take such action as is necessary for the public.”

  Dr. Munroe swung to the filing cabinet behind his desk, punched name and number of the ship’s doctor. The microcard slid into the viewer, was projected on the screen. Dr. Munroe scanned the professional qualifications of the medical officer. He dialed the ship’s medical number.

  The face of the gray-haired, alert-eyed physician appeared on the screen instantly. “This is Lilly, Medical Officer of the Sylvestius requesting pratique.”

  Munroe transferred the image of the photograph on his card with the picture of the man on the screen to the analyzer. Automatically the pictures blended. He looked at the likeness calibrator. The point of feature differential was well within the margin of error allowed for aging difference. Apparently they had not been out very long. He waited while a new photograph was made, became a part of the doctor’s master card.

  “This is Munroe, Senior Medical Officer, Ninth Lunar Quarantine Station. Report point of departure, duration, and nature of voyage. List all patients with their diseases. This demand is made for the public.”

  “Earthing from Ferenzia, Planet II; Albrecht System. Freight has been subjected to approved routine decontamination procedures. Holds are now under three atmospheres of chloropoxsine. Ship’s company consists of two-twenty officers and ratings. Passengers twelve hundred and ten. One birth en route. No deaths. One case of ondecca fever, cured without sequelae. Request clearance.”

  “Pratique granted.
”

  He turned to the other phone announcing the arrival of a freighter from Halseps. His mind leafed through the pages of memory to recall the planet. He was forced to go to the planetary index file. It was a small planet of a distant sun on the very periphery of man’s growing empire. Operations could tell him nothing about the ship or the medical officer.

  When he called the ship, the grooved face of a snarl-haired, black-browed, square-chinned man appeared. An officer’s cap was cocked on the ragged remnant of one ear. His beady, black eyes were venomously sadistic. “I’m Bill Blackbern, medical officer of the ship,” his voice was angrily resentful, “don’t remember my number. We ain’t got any disease aboard. We want to clear for Earth. Is that satisfactory with you boys?” he finished sarcastically.

  Dave Munroe punched out the name and from more than five million medical cards in his filing cabinet, two photomicrographs slid into the projector. One of them was a new graduate. The face of the freighter’s medical officer was similar to the other card but feature correlation was ejected by the analyzer.

  “Place your face one inch from the screen,” Dave ordered, “and open your eyes wide.” He slid an ophthalmoscopic camera over his screen, photographed the eye grounds of the doctor, compared those with the prints he had. They tallied.

  “Look, Doc,” Blackbern’s voice was a rasping growl, “I said we want to clear Earthwards. Our ship is clean in and out. Our holds are filled with treated nalyor skins. Soft beautiful pelts that glow in the dark like each strand was made of platinum. The finest things ever to come from an animal. The gals will go wild over them. Give us clearance and I’ll see you get one. They’re worth a thousand stellars each. Nice thing for your wife.”

  At the mention of wife a sick feeling of anguish followed by a surge of unreasoning anger swept him. He ignored the bribe. “My records fail to show me what ship you’re in. My last entry is dated seven years ago when you were expelled from practice on Dynia.”

  “I was railroaded by one of the big companies,” Blackbern exploded. “I got a job on this ship and we cruised about the Aldebaran nucleus. We’re Earthing from Halseps. We’ve got thirty officers and men—”

  “How many did you start with?”

  “We started with about a hundred but—”

  “What happened to them?” Dave asked sharply.

  Blackbern grinned unpleasantly. “You ain’t been out among the lesser rocks. Out there, there ain’t no law, no God and the boys play for keeps. If you land on an airless planet and you got an enemy, you might find he’s put metal filings in your atmosphere regenerator; or if it’s a virulent planet why he might burn a weld in your armor.” He laughed rudely. “The Canaberra is a clean ship, in and out.”

  “I’m familiar with conditions at the periphery,” Dave said coldly. “Do you have any disease of any type in your ship?”

  “If we do have, does it mean we can’t go to Earth? We’ve got a fortune in skins. We’ll take care of any spacemen—” He stopped suddenly.

  Dave’s nimble fingers danced over switches on his desk. Attention in the Station! Attention Earth Guard! Attention Exotic Disease Control! The ship to which I’m now talking, the freighter Canaberra, Earthing from Halseps has been denied pratique. The professional ability and standards of the medical officer are open to doubt. Cradle ship for examination; begin routine external hull wash. This is for the public.”

  Blackbern’s face became dark and ugly. “You and your public. All right you nosy pig-brain. I’ve got several guys here with something that acts like malignant tuberculosis, at least they’re coughing their lungs out,” he laughed sadistically, “but in little pieces you understand, just little pieces.”

  The closed phone from the yard office rang and the ground doctor appeared on the screen. “Dr. Munroe,” he said, “I’d like to remind you there is no epidemiologist at Exotic. Only the pathology crew and the medics from the Colonial Office.” He paused. “Dr. Craig died this morning.”

  “I know it. I’m taking over control this afternoon.”

  “Doctor, not you again,” concern mirrored the physician’s face. “That’s too bad.”

  “It’s for the public,” Dave said sharply.

  “It’s for the public,” the doctor repeated the liturgy.

  Dave pressed the stud turning on his window. He looked out over the quarantine station. Cupped in Tycho’s crag-walled crater the symmetrical buildings were beautiful in their utilitarian design. The tackle gang expanding the cradle to receive a Transtellar freighter looked like silver bugs in the harsh, white sunlight. The ship settled into the ways like a ball floating slowly into a kitten’s claws. An exploring battleship, cradled earlier, was discharging its crew into the Physicals Building. The ground crew was setting up fire guns preparing to wrap the hull in a sterilizing flame blanket. Lines hosing out to the ship from the Chemical Building, from this distance, looked like thin, golden snakes.

  Above the Lunar surface, the Sylvestrus gathering speed for Earth was like a flaming mirror. Near her was the Canaberra, Blackbern’s freighter.

  He brought it closer on the screen and his lips curled in disgust. Its hull was a dirty black, mottled with areas of reddened corrosion. One of the port screens was blanked out by a cracked, plastic disk. The grounding tackle hung to the ship like shreds of seaweed to a rotten log. Freezing vapor from expanding air, escaping from a rent in the topside surface, looked like a thin plume of steam from a tea kettle.

  The sight of the ship with its dread implications of disease was an anchor to his weary emotions. He realized again the public had to be protected from the biological catastrophe such a ship would cause.

  One extraterrestrial disease, made horribly contagious by lack of any racial immunity, would sweep Earth’s billions; they would fall before such infection like pillars of steel in a neutrone flame.

  He was a policeman; protecting the health of the public. A wave of pure contentment swept him, washed away the sodden feeling of morose despair and indignant anger.

  The gong of the phone and the appearance of an unfamiliar face on the plate brought him to the screen. “This is the toll operator on Earth. Calling Dr. Munroe. Dr. Dave Munroe. Is this Dr. Munroe, Ninth Lunar Quarantine, Tycho?”

  “This is Dr. Munroe. My number is Professional 33-64-1875. I am ready to speak. This call is not, I repeat, this call is not for the public.”

  “This call is not for the public,” the operator repeated. “You will have a closed channel between you and your party. Vernier adjustment.” She read off the settings for his phone. There was a flash of violet light, she disappeared and the clear, wide, gold-flecked eyes of Roberta were smiling into his own.

  “When will it be, Davey?” Her voice held promise of happiness in its lilting richness. “I’ve never waited so impatiently.”

  He swallowed, hating to see the grinding crash of all their dreams. “It won’t be, might never be, Roberta.”

  She leaned closer to her screen. So close she blanked out the details of the laboratory behind her. “You mean our marriage was forbidden?” Her lovely eyes widened in bewildered wonder. “But David. Why? Was it you? Me?”

  He fumbled for a cigarette to hide the terrible burst of frustrated anger filling his mind. He forced sardonic laughter through his tight mouth. “The marital division of the bureau gave us a clean pratique. It was the”—he spit out the words—“the Bureau of Public Health, Epidemiology Division!”

  “What! But David,” startled surprise flickered between her level brows.

  “They had good reason,” he admitted, forcing himself to put it into words. “You see I’m to go to Exotic Disease Control.”

  “Ohhhhh! David no!” She capped her mouth with a long slender hand as her face became gaunt and pale. “Not again. Not that—” Her voice trailed off into a clicking whisper.

  He tore a strip of tape from the scribe talk, transliterated the message slowly, realizing as he did so, he was reciting what might well be his own epitaph.
“ ‘From: Director General, Public Health. To: All Personnel. Dr. James Craig, Commander in the Public Health, Senior Medical Officer, Exotic Disease Control, Lunar Station, died this morning while entering a disease ship. He willfully entered this ship, well aware of its hazards. His conduct was in keeping with the highest traditions of the Public Health Service. Signed: Gumnes, Director General.’

  “Now listen. It’s right on the same tape. Saving money,” he explained bitterly. “ ‘Personal transfer order: Commander David Munroe, Planetary Epidemiologist, upon reporting to Commander Sigmund Russell, Planetary Epidemiologist, you will take command of Exotic Disease Control to fill out the term of the late Dr. James Craig. This transfer is for the public.’

  ‘ “From: Personnel Division: In accordance with Directive 43,

  Paragraph B of the rules and regulations of the Public Health Service which states that personnel assigned extra-hazardous duty as exemplified by Exotic Disease Control may not be married; you, Dr. David Munroe, are informed that your request for permission to marry Dr. Roberta Wallace is denied until such time as you have completed your newly assigned tour of duty. This denial is for the public.’ ”

  “How long will you be there?” Roberta asked in a tight, hushed voice.

  “I’ll have about four months. I’ve been there twice, you know. No one,” he said slowly, “has come back a third time.”

  She tried to sound matter-of-fact. “That’s what comes from being a good doctor. Mediocrity does have its compensations.” She forced a smile. “Just think, it’ll be double pay with a bonus. Oh! Dave, if only you don’t have to go prowling around in some derelict. That is what gets them all.”

  “Someone has to see where the ship came from,” he pointed out. “It’s for the public.”

  “If you do get a derelict showing dead lights, just take the organisms and never mind trying to clean the ship for some big company. Don’t try and be a hero.”

  He laughed at her advice. “That’s all you ever do. Just open the ship at the landing room air lock, take a sample of the organisms. See if they are the lethal cause. If they are, you just turn them over to the bacteriochemists for classification. You let the pharmacology crew work out the antigen. Then you pull the log to see where the ship had been, sterilize it, turn it over to the Colonial Office.”