Earth Has Been Found (10 page)

XVI.

All Malin’s telephone call got him was a thinly veiled invitation to get lost. Another two hours passed. With a thousand things piling up in Washington, he felt he would go crazy if he hung around any longer. He returned to Freedman’s office and was greeted, if that is the word, with blank stares; he might have been a total stranger. Even the office seemed unfamiliar. The air was blue with the smoke from Freedman’s pipe, and pungent with the odor of Russian tobacco. Marinskiya, her jacket off, was drawing diagrams. Scott was reading case notes. Coffee cups, glasses, case histories, books, and a bottle of whiskey cluttered the desk.

Freedman practically threw the FBI man out. Yes, he would report as soon as possible, but right now time did not permit. Malin, surprised by this brusque reception, asked if should return later. Freedman seemed annoyed by his persistence. “Yes, tomorrow,” he said. “Or the next day.” Pressed by Malin, Freedman said impatiently that Doctor Marinskiya would be staying with him.

Too worried by the implications of Freedman’s manner to be annoyed, Malin left for Washington. The doctors had forgotten him before he reached his car.

*

Freedman liked his Soviet colleague, her simple, direct approach. She had no false modesty about her status, but did not try to pull rank on him.

She had begun by clearing the ground: How much did Freedman know of her specialty? Freedman replied truthfully that he had read with interest one paper of hers, but was hardly up-to-date. Scott, who had graduated from med school much more recently, might know more.

Marinskiya took off her jacket, lit a cigarette, and plunged into a heavily condensed postgraduate course in cytology, amazing both men with her masterly presentation, done straight off the top of her head. She in turn quickly decided that if Freedman was a fair specimen of an American GP, she would have to re-evaluate her low opinion of Western medicine.

Questions and answers followed. Marinskiya’s bright blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, gratified by the Americans’ quick understanding. With the whiskey came first names, and Tatyana kicked off her shoes.

But this was no party. Carefully she stuck to the general principles of cytology, making sure there would be no areas of misunderstanding in either language or terminology.

Only when satisfied that both men had grasped the basics did she start on Case ICARUS, Event Two, the Ilyushin-14 pilot and copilot.

From the time they landed, both men had been kept in a KGB sanitorium in Vorkuta. For the first few months their detention had been for security reasons — and, Tatyana added quickly, for psychological examination. Nearly a year had elapsed before any serious interest was taken in their physical condition, apart from standard checks. One of these checkups revealed that a minor complaint of the pilot’s (Freedman identified it as athlete’s foot) had completely cleared up. Without treatment by powerful antibiotics, that was extremely unusual. Both men were minutely examined. Both were not only fit, they were in excellent condition.

And that, too, said Tatyana candidly, was surprising. Though efficiently run, the sanitorium was a KGB establishment and not famous for luxuries. It was located at Vorkuta, a town well inside the Arctic Circle, bitterly cold in the six-month winter and, as she put it, “unfavorable” for the rest of the year. As a result of the interest the report aroused, KGB approval was obtained and the men were flown three thousand kilometers south to a medical research establishment near Odessa.

Odessa, explained Tatyana patriotically, was in all respects a beautiful place, comparing very favorably with the south of France, the Caribbean, California, or any other resort area. Here the men were re-examined, subjected to extensive tests, and in their off-lime allowed to relax, free from dose KGB surveillance.

Freedman asked about the men’s diet. Tatyana looked at him blankly. What of it? It had been, so far as she knew, a normal, perfectly adequate diet. Freedman nodded, apologizing for the interruption.

The aviators had been in the Odessa establishment less than three weeks when the first sign of trouble was noted. Both complained of feeling tired, although they slept well enough. This was at first attributed to the change in climate, but the condition did not pass; it worsened.

Another week, and neither of the men seemed able to keep his eyes open for more than an hour at a stretch. Fresh examinations revealed nothing, but since both looked as if they might fall asleep standing up, they were hospitalized.

“And here,” said Tatyana, her voice husky from talk and too many cigarettes, “I want you to follow most closely. The men were put to bed, extremely lethargic but apparently otherwise fit, on the afternoon of what we afterwards designated Day One.

“By the morning of Day Two, their condition, particularly that of the pilot, had worsened. Even after a good ten hours of sleep, both men fell into a coma soon after being awakened for breakfast. Clinically, the symptoms indicated a terminal diabetic condition. But it was not diabetes. The men were again examined that morning, and a small lesion, less than a centimeter in diameter, was discovered on the left side of the pilot’s neck. That was all. It was not regarded as significant, possibly an insect bite — ”

Freedman sat up, suddenly alert, but shook his head when Tatyana looked at him inquiringly. “No,” he said, “go on.”

“By evening the lesion had grown to the size of a pigeon’s egg; it was hard to the touch and fibrous around the periphery, resilient at the center. The pilot’s coma had deepened; intravenous feeding was ordered. The doctors decided excision was the only answer. Early in the morning of Day Three — the growth by that time the size of a duck’s egg — they operated. Surgically it presented no problems, and was completed satisfactorily.” Tatyana took a sip of her whiskey, her hand trembling slightly. “Within two hours the man died; cause, cardiac failure.”

She paused; Freedman looked grim, Scott pale. “Brace yourselves, my friends, it gets worse. First, no cause for the heart failure could be determined. I am assured that the preoperative check revealed nothing, and the patient’s postoperative condition was good. Still he died.” She drank again. “Secondly, the tumor had been excised intact; two doctors and three nurses testified to the fact. Placed in a dish, it was put aside for later examination, and was not observed until after the patient’s wound had been cleaned, sutured, and dressed. Only then did the surgeon look in the dish. The tumor had ruptured; a serous fluid lay in the bottom of the dish. Under the collapsed skin lay a hollow hemisphere of fibrous tissue about one centimeter thick. No one in the institute had ever seen anything like it. At that point I was summoned from Moscow.” Abruptly she stopped. “But I am tired of talking.” She produced a paper from her wallet. “A summary of my findings. Read it if you wish; in short, it says I didn’t know what I was examining. Excuse me.” She got up, padding off silently in her stocking feet to the bathroom.

Freedman skimmed through the paper; both men remained silent. Freedman passed the paper to Scott and went to the phone. He had not warned his wife that they had a guest. He did so, adding he would take Tatyana out for dinner.

Tatyana paid little attention to her meal. She was wrapped up in her subject, talking technically of the cell tissue, drawing diagrams on napkins, using the word
discontinuity
in a context neither Freedman nor Scott understood. But they got the gist of her main argument. The structure of the tumor was entirely new to her, yet the serous fluid appeared upon analysis to be normal. She reserved the most dramatic observation until the end.

Freedman ordered coffee — Would she care for a liqueur? Only water had been taken with the meal. Yes, said Tatyana; vodka. She tossed away three without visible effect. Over the last she ended the story of the Ilyushin pilot.

She cupped her strong hands. “The tumor, like half a small tennis ball — yes? Above the cut top, the collapsed dermal layer.” Thumb and forefinger indicated a millimeter’s thickness. “Between, the fluid.” She stopped, marshaling her thoughts. “A definitive answer is not possible, but I feel” — she placed one hand on her ample breast — “even allowing for evaporation, the fluid present, did not, could not, fill the cavity.”

Freedman saw it all too plainly. “You guessed the rupture was due to some other agent, present in the intact tumor, now no longer there.”

“ ‘Guessed’ is not correct, Mark,” she replied. “I prefer ‘evaluated.’”

It was all so conversational, so academic, that Scott was slow to grasp the significance. When he did, however, he thought of Shane, and the color ebbed from his face. “Good God,” he whispered huskily, “a parasite!” Tatyana gave him the slightest of nods.

Back in the office Scott brewed coffee. Tatyana shifted gears effortlessly back to whiskey, waiting patiently for the men to settle down. Freedman consulted a book, read briefly, then resumed his seat.

“Now,” said Tatyana, “I tell you of the copilot.”

For the past two hours the implications of her story had been racing through Mark’s mind, but impatient as he was to proceed he admired her methodical approach. One thing at a time.

“First, a question,” he said. “It seems to me your conclusion that the cyst was in fact an egg which hatched unobserved is based on two points: the ruptured membrane, and your guess — and frankly, that’s all it is — that the serous fluid was insufficient to fill the cavity.”

“I come to that.” Tatyana was in no way put off by the criticism. “On Day Three, shortly before his colleague died the copilot showed similar extreme symptoms. The lethargy they had in common, but he was slower to pass into deep coma. At this point I arrived; from here the observations are mine, not secondhand. With the experience gained in the first case, we decided against surgery; instead, we watched. Coma developed with the same amazing speed — so did a tumor on his right wrist.

“We kept watch through the night. Nothing happened while I had the duty. I then thought he had little chance of survival beyond the morning. His arm had been secured by bandages so that it lay outside the bedclothes, resting on his stomach, the tumor plainly visible under a spotlight, the room otherwise in darkness.”

Scott breathed deeply, his face set, imagining the scene. “At one o’clock in the morning another doctor took over.” Anger mounted in her voice. “He denies nodding off, yet he can only say he was suddenly aware that the tumor had ruptured — unobserved.” She spat the word out. “Unforgivable! For twelve hours the man’s condition remained marginal; yet, strangely, I had the feeling that the standard intensive care given him did little to aid recovery.” She smiled at Mark. “A guess, of course. Whatever the reason, by the end of Day Four a slight but general improvement was evident. At the same time the tumor regressed, shriveled. The progress continued at an increasing rate. On Day Seven, an estimated eighty-four hours after the rupture, the tumor lost adhesion and dropped away, leaving a clean wound. Thereafter he recovered quickly.”

Mark interrupted. “I don’t see the additional evidence — ”

“It is this: The arm was secured, a small kidney dish placed under the wrist, resting on the patient’s stomach. The bulk of the fluid drained into that, but an irregular row of small stains, none greater than two millimeters in diameter, extended for roughly thirty centimeters across the sheet, away from the man’s hand. The inference is obvious.”

Shakily Scott asked, “The spots — they were analyzed?”

“Of course. Serous fluid.”

Freedman broke the silence. “The actual point of rupture, anything significant?”

Tatyana nodded approvingly. “Some fool cut into the first tumor at that point; by the time I saw it, no useful opinion could be given. In the second case — ” She paused. “So far as could be seen — remember, we had decided not to intervene in any way — the opening was circular, perhaps four millimeters in diameter.” She shrugged. “Undue significance cannot be attached to size or shape because of natural elasticity of the skin.” She shrugged again.

“Getting back to the patient,” said Scott, thinking only of Shane, “when you say he recovered, was it to his ‘perfect’ state, or the way he was before the flight?”

“His pre-flight condition.”

“Can you be sure he is not, as you said earlier, perfect? I mean, short of a specific condition, how can you know?”

“Two reasons. His pre-Event health record showed he had a tendency to mild dyspepsia — that returned. Secondly, in his ‘perfect’ state, his skin was exactly that, resembling a newborn infant. I examined him three days ago; dermatology is not my subject, but he seemed to have a normal quota of skin eruptions for a man of his age.”

Freedman tossed his glasses on the desk, pinched the bridge of his nose, and blinked shortsightedly at Tatyana. “But the parasite — ” He got no further.

The flat of Tatyana’s hand smacked down hard on the desk. “In the case of the pilot the failure is forgivable. In the second case — ” She spat the words out with typical Russian fervor. “That imbecile son of a pig, the doctor who fell asleep! A disgrace to Soviet medicine!” She poured herself a generous shot from the near-empty bottle. “Nothing! No trace. In the copilot’s case, every square centimeter of the room was checked. I cannot describe the shame I feel admitting this.”

Mark quickly intervened. “Yes, but have you inferred anything from the known facts?”

Tatyana accepted his slight reproof, checking her fierce Slavic temperament. “I have inferred,” she said slowly, “that the parasite, size and structure unknown, occupied the cyst, which was roughly the size of a table tennis ball, perhaps a little larger. I
guess
” — she stressed the word — “it had legs, possibly wings, and at least an elementary sensory system — how else could either of the parasites have escaped?”