Earth Has Been Found (9 page)

XIV.

As time passed, Mark Freedman — while not exactly worried — became faintly uneasy about his Special List patients. The case of the de Byl girl’s leg, remarkable as it was, was not conclusive evidence of anything. All the same, few time travelers required his services, though many had been regular patients before the flight. Discreetly, Freedman rechecked some. Old Mrs. Jane’s varicose veins looked a lot better. A case of hypertension showed a reduction in blood pressure. And one ancient woman with an arthritic hip was getting around without a stick for the first time in years. She told him it was due to “them government rays,” advising him to get some.

Freedman heard nothing from Malin after his report on the girl’s leg. Maybe the FBI had lost interest, but he was far too cagey to believe that. Diligently, he wrote up his case histories, watching, listening, saying nothing.

Then, on a late spring morning, a Special did show up: a spry seventy-year-old widow. She had a mind, she said coyly, to marry one of the widowers from the historic trip. They both felt fine, but the old goat, although touching seventy, had some pretty young ideas about, well — bed. Did the doctor think … ?

He grabbed the chance to do another physical. Later he described her to Scott as a vintage Rolls-Royce: The suspension might be weaker and the paintwork scratched, but aside from that she appeared to be in fine form.

He gave her a clean bill of health, and suggested that her swain pay a call. His checkup gave the same result. Aside from an insect bite not a darned thing had bothered him since the flight. Freedman had long suspected the man had heart trouble, but the EKG readout and his own observations proved otherwise. A lot of men of forty weren’t in as good shape. Freedman gave the union his professional blessing, but warned the man not to overdo the sex.

“If you want to — and can — that’s fine,” he said. “But no pills, no artificial stimulants.”

“Glad to hear you say that, doctor.” His patient glanced at the closed door and said in a low, confidential voice, “Guess we’ve been doin’ a little practicin’. Mind you” — he looked conspiratorially at Freedman — “never more than three, mebbe four times a week.”

This admission shook Freedman. He’d known the man for twenty years, and in his estimation the patient had never been a sexual flyer. Seven years widowed, he’d shown no signs of deprivation. Now the old devil was back in the game, and still had enough spare energy for a speculative glance at the nurse’s tail.

Scott’s report told the same story, though Freedman discounted his observation, for all Jaimie’s spare time went into observing Shane de Byl. Up and about in record time — but far less keen on skiing — she built no roadblocks in the young doctor’s path to her. Passing her by chance in the street, Freedman noted her radiant health and evident happiness, and harbored some uncharitable thoughts about his assistant’s conduct off-duty.

*

It was after this chance encounter that Freedman evolved a new attitude toward medicine. Until now, he reasoned, the basic aim of his profession had been to maintain or restore a patient’s health. What constituted health clearly varied with age. Expressed as a graph, the line would rise from zero at birth, peak near twenty-one, and decline thereafter slowly at first, then heading steeply downward. Freedman was well aware that his mental graph was correct only in the broadest terms. But for him it served its purpose. Any physician knew he could do little about degenerative conditions — a man of ninety complaining of arthritis simply could not be restored to his state at twenty; even if it were possible to eradicate his disease, he still could not move with youthful agility. His aging organs, however healthy, limited him.

Now, as Freedman saw it, a new graph had to be drawn. Given the X factor involved in time travel, the decline was far less steep. Natural degeneration had, he guessed, not only stopped — it had become regeneration. The graph might be a straight line. It might even rise.

Freedman secretly wished for a second “accident.” Seventy-odd people were not statistically satisfying. Above all, he burned to know details of the secret time warp device. If the active factor could be isolated …

Inwardly he allowed himself to dream. The X factor might lead not to a mere return to health, to an elevation to a new, unknown level of superhealth. Man had gone a long way in that direction with selective breeding of animals — cattle, sheep, and hogs far exceeded their wild forebears in size and health. Was he, quite accidentally, on the verge of doing the same thing for his own species? Freedman did not find that aspect particularly exciting; to produce larger, longer-living humans did not strike him as a meaningful exercise. But to give humanity superhealth for a span of, say, seventy to eighty years — that was another thing altogether. He realized he could not jump to conclusions. The sample was too small, the time scale too narrow; there could be a sudden, steep drop in the graph, a rapid regression.

Even so, the germ of the idea existed. The Wright brothers’ first flight had been immensely useful — to know a thing was possible was more than half the battle. Superhealth — raising humanity to a new, amazing level — might just be practical. The active ingredient in the X factor had to be found.

*

Freedman called Malin and suggested a meeting with the bureau’s medical men. To his annoyance, Malin showed up instead.

Although they had met only once before, the doctor’s practiced eye took immediate note of the marked change in his visitor. Clearly the man had lost weight, was exhausted and under great stress.

Malin explained, not very successfully, that for security reasons a medical get-together was not possible. He would faithfully report Freedman’s views. In due course, he did.

The committee took no notice. The doctor’s theory was based, as they well knew, on a totally false premise — and as for the health of a bunch of senior citizens, what was that to men in their situation?

Not unnaturally, Freedman felt somewhat discouraged after Malin’s visit, but not enough to lose interest in his Specials. The discouragement lay in Malin’s reaction. He was a man, thought Freedman, in need of a long rest. Freedman flirted briefly with the idea of going over Malin’s head, but decided to hold his cards, await developments. Events rapidly justified him.

*

Abdera’s butcher was the first to observe the phenomenon. A big-bellied man, devoted to beer and careless of dress, his clumsiness with a meat cleaver made him a frequent visitor to the doctor’s office. Shortly after Freedman had devised his theory, the butcher rolled into the office, one thumb roughly bandaged.

Wondering how such a ham-fisted guy had become a butcher, Scott cleaned and stitched up the nasty gash. To keep his patient’s mind off the operation, he asked how trade was.

“Not so good, doc,” rumbled the man in a deep, beery voice. “Back in the winter it wasn’t bad, wasn’t bad at all. But now I’m jest fillin’ up the deep-freezes. Outa season this town dies.” He fell silent, contemplating the dullness of Abdera. “ ‘Course, thet fuss over them plane folks gave a lift to trade — all them reporters an’ TV fellers. Now thet’s over and gone.” Again he sank into somber silence, but resumed suddenly with greater animation as an intriguing thought came to mind. “Tell you one thing, doc — the durndest thing! Some folks around this town have gone plumb crazy on liver! Jest can’t get enough. Lamb’s liver is what they want, but I tell ’em, a lamb’s only got so much liver, an’ I don’t have enough to go round.” He nodded, saluting his own wisdom. “They settle for any goddam liver. Whaddaya make of thet, doc?”

Scott, now busy taping up the thumb, did not seem concerned. “I’ve no idea,” he said and gave instructions for the future care of the thumb. The butcher, not to be put off, rambled on.

“Yeah, thanks. You know, liver’s a fine food, very fine. Folks jest don’t eat enough of it. Steaks and more steaks! But
these
folks have cottoned to it in a big way, yes sir!” His voice sank to an even lower pitch. “An the screwiest thing is who them folks are!” He waited expectantly.

Scott was only too anxious to get rid of him. He stood up. “Oh — who?”

“You an’ me, doc, you might say we’re in the same line of business,” replied the butcher. “I don’t shoot off my mouth no more than you do — but I could. You’d be real ‘mazed the things I light on. Take a certain widder — week in week out, she gets by on a coupla chops — then, all of a sudden, she’s buyin’ two steaks, one large, one small, each Friday for the last month! Don’t tell me it’s for the dawg — she ain’t got one.”

“What’s that to do with your liver addicts?” Scott asked curtly.

“Gee, not a thing, doc! Jest pointin’ out I get to see a lotta things.” He read Scott’s expression correctly. “Yeah, the liver. All them folks from thet plane! Leastways, them or their families — they’re the ones that are wild for liver.”

Scott froze. Trying to look uninterested, he said offhandedly, “Maybe they got a recipe from radio or TV.”

The butcher took his time, regarding his thumb thoughtfully. Slowly he looked up at the doctor, a crafty smile spreading across his swollen drinker’s face.

“Mighty strange recipe, doc. Seems them plane folk are the only ones who care for it.” His eyes were slits in the folds of fat as his grin deepened. “Take ole Mrs. Groot and thet young niece of hers, de Byl, ’frinstance.” His piggy eyes searched Scott’s face for some reaction. “Jest the two of ’em, thet’s all, but twice this week they’ve had liver: two pounds on Monday, two pounds Wednesday. Thet’s a whole lot of liver fer two females! Mebbe I should get thet recipe!”

XV.

Jaimie Scott wasted no time in telling Freedman.

“Yes, very interesting.” He looked at Jaimie over the top of his glasses. “But is it the whole story? As far as he’s concerned it is, no doubt, but meat’s not the only food. We need more information, but we must tread carefully.” Until then, Scott had regarded the story as an isolated event, but clearly Mark saw it in a wider context. Jaimie began to see the point. “Okay, Mark, where do we go from here?”

“You tackle Shane unofficially. Don’t alarm her, but get all you can from her and her aunt. If you run into any other Special, pump them — discreetly. I’ll check with the two on my list for tomorrow. We’ll discuss our findings here, tomorrow afternoon.”

“Tomorrow afternoon! That’s not much time!”

“I don’t think there
is
much time.” Freedman offered no explanation. “Speculation based on such slim evidence is pointless, but I’ve got a nasty feeling this is not good news.”

When they met the following afternoon, six case histories lay on Freedman’s desk: four female, two male. The findings were identical. Apart from liver, each had an abnormal appetite for milk and beef extract.

Freedman ran one hand repeatedly through his thinning silver hair, a sure sign of agitation. “A damned small sample, but it has to be enough. What’s your preliminary diagnosis?”

Scott hesitated. “Well, preliminary has to be the word. I’d guess it’s a compulsive desire generated by a massive deficiency of vitamin B-12. But I’m at a loss as to what has caused the deficiency.”

Freedman nodded. “Yes, that’s one way of looking at it. Agreed, the evidence strongly suggests B-12, but I’m not so sure about the deficiency. It may not be an intake to restore imbalance. It may be to stock up for a new requirement.”

Scott laughed unconvincingly. “I’m pretty sure neither of the men are pregnant, and neither are Shane or her old aunt. That’s another thing,” he said apologetically, “I’ve just remembered Shane said they prefer their liver raw.”

Freedman looked at the notes. “I see you estimate each has a daily intake — along with standard foods — of a quart of milk, two to three ounces of beef extract, and a pound of raw liver.” Freedman’s hand went back to his hair. “That’s one hell of a — ”

The phone rang. Freedman answered monosyllabically, but something in his manner made Scott watch his face. Briefly their eyes met; Scott saw his colleague’s pupils dilate in shock. Twice Freedman asked for a name to be repeated; then the conversation ended abruptly. He replaced the receiver carefully and sat back, staring blankly.

“What’s wrong, Mark?”

Scott felt alarmed; Mark was not given to dramatics. “Mark, please tell me.”

Freedman spoke, his words coming in unusually short sentences. “Malin — he wants a meeting. Both of us. Washington.” He stifled Scott’s exclamation of surprise with a single look. “I said no. They’re coming here.”

“They — who are they?”

Mark pushed his spectacles up until they rested on his head; he rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Malin and a Dr. Marinskiya.”

Jaimie frowned. “Who’s he? Sounds like a Russian.”

“She. Tatyana Ivanovna Marinskiya. Malin didn’t elaborate, but she’s certainly Russian. The name mean anything to you?”

“A Russian doctor with an FBI agent?” Scott shook his head. “Sounds screwy to me. No, never heard of her — should I have?”

“Yes. She’s a big wheel in Soviet cytology, one of the foremost authorities in the world, in fact. She’s got a list of papers as long as your arm! The structure of cells, the function of cells, the multiplication of cells — you name it! First the B-12 discovery and now this — I don’t like it at all, Jaimie.”

“D’you think this may indicate possible tumors?”

“I don’t think anything,” replied Mark deliberately. “Not tonight. Come on; I’ve had enough for one day. What we need is a drink, maybe two.”

*

After the unproductive presidential conference, the ICARUS Ten lapsed into tense, apprehensive expectancy. But the committee was not altogether inactive. A secure voice link, operable by line or radio, was set up between each of the Ten and the Special Operations Room. Anywhere, anytime, all of them, including Sarah, could be in instant touch. So far as their duties allowed, none of the Ten moved far from Washington.

The committee concentrated on contingency plans, but now the emphasis was not on “if” but “when” the story broke. After Lebedev’s outburst, less concern was felt for the Soviet attitude. The party’s line had dearly been decided, and they would stick to it, come what may. To a degree, the committee accepted the idea that ICARUS was a natural, if rare, event. If that could be sold to the world, the U.S. would be in step with the USSR. But none of the Ten believed the story could be made to stick.

None of the Ten believed the story, period. Sarah had become particularly important to them, for she was the nearest they could get to an average person. Her belief could be the belief of millions, and she thought that ICARUS proved that something far greater than man existed.

Arcasso firmly rejected the natural phenomenon theory. Lebedev’s dismissal of the holes in the Ilyushin and the Jumbo cut no ice with him. For nights on end he sat up, filling his den with cigar smoke as he pored over the drawings showing the location of the holes in the two planes.

His wife tried pleading, seduction, and — when that failed — blazing rage. Nothing made a difference. She thought seriously of leaving him. She was an ambitious woman, and even Frank’s sudden promotion to brigadier, arranged by the President to give him more weight, gave her little satisfaction. Unlike her husband, she had long dreamed of that single star. But she rapidly discovered that her improved status in the Washington circle of military wives was a poor reward for the increasing tension at home. Frank had taken to spending his twenty-four hours as duty boss in his office, sleeping on a campbed in the operations room. On balance, it was more restful.

One afternoon he was in the ops room when the presidential phone rang. The president of the USSR had been on the hot line. It was in the urgent interest of the United States, he said, for a Soviet doctor to visit the medical team attending the Jumbo passengers. If Knowlton agreed, Tatyana Marinskiya could be in Washington tomorrow, explaining her mission on arrival. Knowlton consented immediately.

Arcasso called an emergency meeting of the committee. Wasting no time on idle surmise, they proposed that Malin should be her escort. If Malin considered it necessary, this doctor in Abdera, Freedman, should be admitted to the ICARUS circle. They didn’t care for the idea — but, as Malin pointed out, if a doctor had to be involved, Freedman was the best bet. Naturally Malin had run a check on him. Freedman was very well qualified, and security-wise he was rated sound, although security in the old pre-ICARUS sense was meaningless. The chairman called the President and got his immediate approval.

Malin ran a similar check on Dr. Marinskiya. He was not a medical enthusiast, but he found her academic record impressively long, although cytology meant nothing to him. Lacking time to summon an FBI doctor to explain further, he let it go — trouble would come soon enough without him searching for it. He met her at International Airport the next afternoon.

*

Doctor Tatyana Ivanovna Marinskiya turned out to be the universal Mother figure. A round-faced, rather dumpy woman, she looked like more of an authority on home-baked cookies than on cells. Dressed in a Robin Hood hat, heavy shoes and a tweed jacket and skirt that certainly had not been made in Paris or London, she was barely feminine enough not to look like a male in drag. On her matronly bosom was a cheap brooch, and her plump hands displayed a number of rings. Malin, who had an eye for jewelry, figured that if he had the gall to give his wife such trinkets, she’d have stuffed them down his throat. He didn’t care to imagine his mistress’ reaction.

Fortunately for Malin, whose Russian was rusty, she spoke excellent English — with, strangely enough, an English accent. He’d fixed customs and immigration, and within minutes of deplaning, they were on the way to her hotel. For security reasons, there would be no contact with the Soviet embassy.

En route, Malin probed to see just how much she knew. He soon discovered she was completely up to date on all aspects of ICARUS. Malin thought she appeared remarkably calm and cheerful for a person sent here to deal with the mind-boggling mystery of ICARUS. He concluded that she had either swallowed the party line, or was so wrapped up in cytology that she hardly cared. Such people did exist; Malin had a good many specialists on his staff who would gaze fearlessly through the gates of hell to further their knowledge of their field.

Tatyana probed, too. Was Malin a doctor? No? In that case, she said politely, there was little point in involving him in details. In general, her experience with the two Ilyushin pilots would help the medical team attending the Jumbo travelers, and — she added frankly — the American doctors might add to her understanding as well.

Her cheerfulness faded when she learned that the “medical team” consisted of two country doctors, and that the time travelers were not in a sanitorium under observation, but were scattered around, doing whatever they pleased. Malin saw her to her hotel, invited her to dine with him, then left to arrange transportation for the following day.

Next morning they flew to Albany County Airport, where an FBI car met them. During the two-and-a-half-hour journey she said little, smiling politely when he glanced at her, but Malin had no doubt she was quietly observing. During dinner the night before, both had avoided any reference to ICARUS or medicine. But despite their efforts to stick to trivialities, he recognized that behind the motherly apple-pie exterior lay a very keen mind, eager to get to work.

En route, he explained that the doctors she would meet were not yet cleared by ICARUS. If she would be good enough to give him ten minutes to talk with them, Malin would be grateful. She readily agreed. But he read in her watchful eyes something akin to amazement at the way a democracy worked.

Once Malin had briefed Freedman and Scott, he ushered Tatyana into their office, made the introductions, and left. Aside from ICARUS, there were two things Malin couldn’t stand: heights and medical talk. He drove around Abdera, getting an idea of the layout. Maybe he’d be called upon to quarantine the joint.

He figured the doctors would be at it for at least two hours; he’d give them a call after a late lunch.

Malin was far too optimistic.