The Andromeda Strain (11 page)

A NOTE ON THE OUTPUT MAPS: these three maps are intended as examples of the staging of computerbase output mapping. The first map is relatively standard, with the addition of computer coordinates around population centers and other important areas.

The second map has been weighted to account for wind and population factors, and is consequently distorted.

The third map is a computer projection of the effects of wind and population in a specific “scenario.”

None of these output maps is from the Wildfire Project. They are similar, but they represent output from a CBW scenario, not the actual Wildfire work.

(
courtesy General Autonomics Corporation
)

Discussion then turned to the time course of death. Both men had heard the tape from the van; they agreed that everyone at Piedmont seemed to have died quite suddenly.

“Even if you slit a man’s throat with a razor,” Burton said, “you won’t get death that rapidly. Cutting both carotids and jugulars still allows ten to forty seconds before unconsciousness, and nearly a minute before death.”

“At Piedmont, it seems to have occurred in a second or two.”

Burton shrugged. “Trauma,” he suggested. “A blow to the head.”

“Yes. Or a nerve gas.”

“Certainly possible.”

“It’s that, or something very much like it,” Stone said. “If it was an enzymatic block of some kind—like arsenic or strychnine—we’d expect fifteen or thirty seconds, perhaps longer. But a block of nervous transmission, or a block of the neuromuscular junction, or cortical poisoning—that could be very swift. It could be instantaneous.”

“If it is a fast-acting gas,” Burton said, “it must have high diffusibility across the lungs—”

“Or the skin,” Stone said. “Mucous membranes, anything. Any porous surface.”

Burton touched the plastic of his suit. “If this gas is so highly diffusible …”

Stone gave a slight smile. “We’ll find out, soon enough.”

Over the intercom, the helicopter pilot said, “Piedmont approaching, gentlemen. Please advise.”

Stone said, “Circle once and give us a look at it.”

The helicopter banked steeply. The two men looked out and saw the town below them. The buzzards had landed during the night, and were thickly clustered around the bodies.

“I was afraid of that,” Stone said.

“They may represent a vector for infectious spread,” Burton said. “Eat the meat of infected people, and carry the organisms away with them.”

Stone nodded, staring out the window.

“What do we do?”

“Gas them,” Stone said. He flicked on the intercom to the pilot. “Have you got the canisters?”

“Yes sir.”

“Circle again, and blanket the town.”

“Yes sir.”

The helicopter tilted, and swung back. Soon the two men could not see the ground for the clouds of pale-blue gas.

“What is it?”

“Chlorazine,” Stone said. “Highly effective, in low concentrations, on aviary metabolism. Birds have a high metabolic rate. They are creatures that consist of little more than feathers and muscle; their heartbeats are usually about one-twenty, and many species eat more than their own weight every day.”

“The gas is an uncoupler?”

“Yes. It’ll hit them hard.”

The helicopter banked away, then hovered. The gas slowly cleared in the gentle wind, moving off to the south. Soon they could see the ground again. Hundreds of birds lay there; a few flapped their wings spastically, but most were already dead.

Stone frowned as he watched. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew he had forgotten something, or ignored something. Some fact, some vital clue, that the birds provided and he must not overlook.

Over the intercom, the pilot said, “Your orders, sir?”

“Go to the center of the main street,” Stone said, “and drop the rope ladder. You are to remain twenty feet above ground. Do not put down. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir.”

“When we have climbed down, you are to lift off to an altitude of five hundred feet.”

“Yes sir.”

“Return when we signal you.”

“Yes sir.”

“And should anything happen to us—”

“I proceed directly to Wildfire,” the pilot said, his voice dry.

“Correct.”

The pilot knew what that meant. He was being paid according to the highest Air Force pay scales: he was drawing regular pay plus hazardous-duty pay, plus non-wartime special-services pay, plus mission-over-hostile-territory pay, plus bonus airtime pay. He would receive more than a thousand dollars for this day’s work, and his family would receive an additional ten thousand dollars from the short-term life insurance should he not return.

There was a reason for the money: if anything happened to Burton and Stone on the ground, the pilot was ordered to fly directly to the Wildfire installation and hover thirty feet above ground until such time as the Wildfire group had determined the correct way to incinerate him, and his airplane, in midair.

He was being paid to take a risk. He had volunteered for the job. And he knew that high above, circling at twenty thousand feet, was an Air Force jet with air-to-air missiles. It was the job of the jet to shoot down the helicopter should the pilot suffer a last-minute loss of nerve and fail to go directly to Wildfire.

“Don’t slip up,” the pilot said. “Sir.”

The helicopter maneuvered over the main street of the town and hung in midair. There was a rattling sound: the rope ladder being released. Stone stood and pulled on his helmet. He snapped shut the sealer and inflated his clear suit, puffing it up around him. A small bottle of oxygen on his back would provide enough air for two hours of exploration.

He waited until Burton had sealed his suit, and then Stone opened the hatch and stared down at the ground. The helicopter was raising a heavy cloud of dust.

Stone clicked on his radio. “All set?”

“All set.”

Stone began to climb down the ladder. Burton waited a moment, then followed. He could see nothing in the swirling dust, but finally felt his shoes touch the ground. He released the ladder and looked over. He could barely make out Stone’s suit, a dim outline in a gloomy, dusky world.

The ladder pulled away as the helicopter lifted into the sky. The dust cleared. They could see.

“Let’s go,” Stone said.

Moving clumsily in their suits, they walked down the main street of Piedmont.

7
“An Unusual Process”

SCARCELY TWELVE HOURS after the first known human contact with the Andromeda Strain was made at Piedmont, Burton and Stone arrived in the town. Weeks later, in their debriefing sessions, both men recalled the scene vividly, and described it in detail.

The morning sun was still low in the sky; it was cold and cheerless, casting long shadows over the thinly snow-crusted ground. From where they stood, they could look up and down the street at the gray, weathered wooden buildings; but what they noticed first was the silence. Except for a gentle wind that whined softly through the empty houses, it was deathly silent. Bodies lay everywhere, heaped and flung across the ground in attitudes of frozen surprise.

But there was no sound—no reassuring rumble of an automobile engine, no barking dog, no shouting children.

Silence.

The two men looked at each other. They were painfully aware of how much there was to learn, to do. Some catastrophe had struck this town, and they must discover all they could about it. But they had practically no clues, no points of departure.

They knew, in fact, only two things. First, that the trouble apparently began with the landing of Scoop VII. And second, that death had overtaken the people of the town with astonishing rapidity. If it was a disease from the satellite, then it was like no other in the history of medicine.

For a long time the men said nothing, but stood in the street, looking about them, feeling the wind tug at their oversized suits. Finally, Stone said, “Why are they all outside, in the street? If this was a disease that arrived at night, most of the people would be indoors.”

“Not only that,” Burton said, “they’re mostly wearing pajamas. It was a cold night last night. You’d think they would have stopped to put on a jacket, or a raincoat. Something to keep warm.”

“Maybe they were in a hurry.”

“To do what?” Burton said.

“To see something,” Stone said, with a helpless shrug.

Burton bent over the first body they came to. “Odd,” he said. “Look at the way this fellow is clutching his chest. Quite a few of them are doing that.”

Looking at the bodies, Stone saw that the hands of many were pressed to their chests, some flat, some clawing.

“They didn’t seem to be in pain,” Stone said. “Their faces are quite peaceful.”

“Almost astonished, in fact,” Burton nodded. “These people look cut down, caught in midstride. But clutching their chests.”

“Coronary?” Stone said.

“Doubt it. They should grimace—it’s painful. The same with a pulmonary embolus.”

“If it was fast enough, they wouldn’t have time.”

“Perhaps. But somehow I think these people died a painless death. Which means they are clutching their chests because—”

“They couldn’t breathe,” Stone said.

Burton nodded. “It’s possible we’re seeing asphyxiation. Rapid, painless, almost instantaneous asphyxiation. But I doubt it. If a person can’t breathe, the first thing he does is loosen his clothing, particularly around the neck and chest. Look at that man there—he’s wearing a tie, and he hasn’t touched it. And that woman with the tightly buttoned collar.”

Burton was beginning to regain his composure now, after the initial shock of the town. He was beginning to think clearly. They walked up to the van, standing in the middle of the street, its lights still shining weakly. Stone reached in to turn off the lights. He pushed the stiff body of the driver back from the wheel and read the name on the breast pocket of the parka.

“Shawn.”

The man sitting rigidly in the back of the van was a private named Crane. Both men were locked in rigor mortis. Stone nodded to the equipment in the back.

“Will that still work?”

“I think so,” Burton said.

“Then let’s find the satellite. That’s our first job. We can worry later about—”

He stopped. He was looking at the face of Shawn, who had obviously pitched forward hard onto the steering wheel at the moment of death. There was a large, arc-shaped cut across his face, shattering the bridge of his nose and tearing the skin.

“I don’t get it,” Stone said.

“Get what?” Burton said.

“This injury. Look at it.”

“Very clean,” Burton said. “Remarkably clean, in fact. Practically no bleeding …”

Then Burton realized. He started to scratch his head in astonishment, but his hand was stopped by the plastic helmet.

“A cut like that,” he said, “on the face. Broken capillaries, shattered bone, torn scalp veins—it should bleed like hell.”

“Yes,” Stone said. “It should. And look at the other bodies. Even where the vultures have chewed at the flesh: no bleeding.”

Burton stared with increasing astonishment. None of the bodies had lost even a drop of blood. He wondered why they had not noticed it before.

“Maybe the mechanism of action of this disease—”

“Yes,” Stone said. “I think you may be right.” He grunted and dragged Shawn out of the van, working to pull the stiff body from behind the wheel. “Let’s get that damned satellite,” he said. “This is really beginning to worry me.”

Burton went to the back and pulled Crane out through the rear doors, then climbed in as Stone turned the ignition. The starter turned over sluggishly, and the engine did not catch.

Stone tried to start the van for several seconds, then said, “I don’t understand. The battery is low, but it should still be enough—”