Chapter 5

It seemed that the smell of hunger was in the air. The armed men were cadaverous. Lights came on, and stark, harsh shadows lay black upon the ground. Calhoun’s captors were uniformed, but the uniforms hung loosely upon them. Where the lights struck upon their faces, their cheeks were hollow. They were emaciated. And there were the splotches of pigment of which Calhoun had heard. The leader of the truculent group was blue, except for two fingers which in the glaring illumination seemed whiter than white.

“Out!” said that man savagely. “We’re taking over your stock of food. You’ll get your share of it, like everybody else, but--out!”

Maril spoke over Calhoun’s shoulder. She uttered a cryptic sentence or two. It should have amounted to identification, but there was skepticism in the the armed party.

“Oh, you’re one of us, eh?” said the guard-leader sardonically. “You’ll have a chance to prove that! Come out of there!”

Calhoun spoke abruptly;

“This is a Med Ship,” he said. “There are medicines and bacterial cultures, inside it. They shouldn’t be meddled with. Here on Dara you’ve had enough of plagues!”

The man with the blue hand said as sardonically as before;

“I said the government was taking over your ship! It won’t be looted. But you’re not taking a full cargo of food away! In fact, it’s not likely you’re leaving!”

“I want to speak to someone in authority,” snapped Calhoun. “We’ve just come from Weald.” He felt bristling hatred all about him as he named Weald. “There’s tumult there. They’re talking about dropping fusion bombs here. It’s important that I talk to somebody with the authority to take a few sensible precautions!”

He descended to the ground. There was a panicky “Chee! Chee!“ from behind him, and Murgatroyd came dashing to swarm up his body and cling apprehensively to his neck.

“What’s that?”

“A tormal, “ said Calhoun. “He’s not a pet. Your medical men will know something about him. This is a Med Ship and I’m a Med Ship man, and he’s an important member of the crew. He’s a Med Ship tormal and he stays with me!”

The man with the blue hand said harshly;

“There’s somebody waiting to ask you questions. Here!”

A ground-car came rolling out from the side of the landing-grid enclosure. The ground-car ran on wheels, and wheels were not much used on modern worlds. Dara was behind the times in more ways than one.

“This car will take you to Defense and you can tell them anything you want. But don’t try to sneak back in this ship! It’ll be guarded!”

The ground-car was enclosed, with room for a driver and the three from the Med Ship. But armed men festooned themselves about its exterior and it went bumping and rolling to the massive ground-layer girders of the grid. It rolled out under them and there was paved highway. It picked up speed.

There were buildings on either side of the road, but few showed lights. This was night-time, and the men at the landing-grid had set a pattern of hunger, so that the silence and the dark buildings did not seem a sign of tranquility and sleep, but of exhaustion and despair. The highway lamps were few, by comparison with other inhabited worlds, and the ground-car needed lights of its own to guide its driver over a paved surface that needed repair. By those moving lights other depressing things could be seen. Untidiness. Buildings not kept up to perfection. Evidences of apathy. The road hadn’t been cleaned lately. There was litter here and there.

Even the fact that there were no stars added to the feeling of wretchedness and gloom and--ultimately--of hunger.

Maril spoke nervously to the driver.

“The famine isn’t any better?”

He moved his head in negation, but did not speak.

“I left--two years ago,” said Maril. “It was just beginning then. Rationing hadn’t started then--.”

The driver said evenly;

“There’s rationing now!”

The car went on and on. A vast open space appeared ahead. Lights about its perimeter seemed few and pale.

“E-everything seems--worse. Even the lights.”

“Using all the power,” said the driver, “to warm up ground to grow crops where it ought to be winter. Not doing too well, either.”

Calhoun knew, somehow, that Maril moistened her lips.

“I--was sent,” she explained to the driver, “to go ashore on Trent and then make my way to Weald. I--mailed reports of what I found out back to Trent. Somebody got them back to here whenever--it was possible.”

The driver said;

“Everybody knows the man on Trent disappeared. Maybe he got caught, maybe somebody saw him without makeup. Or maybe he just quit being one of us. What’s the difference? No use!”

Calhoun found himself wincing a little. The driver was not angry. He was hopeless. But men should not despair. They shouldn’t accept hostility from those about them as a device of fate for their destruction. They shouldn’t...

Maril said quickly to him;

“You understand? Dara’s a heavy-metals planet. There aren’t many light elements in our soil. Potassium is scarce. So our ground isn’t very fertile. Before the Plague we traded heavy metals and manufactures for imports of food and potash. But since the Plague we’ve had no off-planet commerce. We’ve been--quarantined.”

“I gathered as much,” said Calhoun. “It was up to Med Service to see that that didn’t happen. It’s up to Med Service now to see that it stops.”

“Too late now for anything,” said the driver, “whatever Med Service may be! They’re talking about cutting down our population so there’ll be food enough for some to live. There are two questions about it: who’s to be kept alive and why.”

The ground-car aimed now for a cluster of faintly brighter lights on the far side of the great open space. They enlarged as they grew nearer. Maril said hesitantly;

“There was someone--Korvan--” Calhoun didn’t catch the rest of the name, Maril said hesitantly; “He was working on food-plants. I--thought he might accomplish something...”

The driver said caustically;

“Sure! Everybody’s heard about him! He came up with a wonderful thing! He and his outfit worked out a way to process weeds so they can be eaten. And they can. You can fill your belly and not feel hungry, but it’s like eating hay. You starve just the same. He’s still working. Head of a government division.”

The ground-car passed through a gate. It stopped before a lighted door. The armed men hanging to its outside dropped off. They watched Calhoun closely as he stepped out with Murgatroyd riding on his shoulder.

Minutes later they faced a hastily-summoned group of officials of the Darian government. For a ship to land on Dara was so remarkable an event that it called practically for a cabinet meeting. And Calhoun noted that they were no better fed than the guards at the space-port.

They regarded Calhoun and Maril with oddly burning eyes. It was, of course, because the two of them showed no signs of hunger. They obviously had not been on short rations.

“My name is Calhoun,” said Calhoun briskly. “I’ve the usual Med Service credentials. Now...”

He did not wait to be questioned. He told them of the appalling state of things in the Twelfth Sector of the Med Service, so that men had been borrowed from other sectors to remedy the intolerable, and he was one of them. He told of his arrival at Weald and what had happened there, from the excessively cautious insistence that he prove he was not a Darian, to the arrival of the death-ship from Orede. He was giving them the news affecting them, as they had not heard it before.

He went on to tell of his stop at Orede and his purpose, and his encounter with the men he found there. When he finished there was silence. He broke it.

“Now,” he said, “Maril’s an agent of yours. She can add to what I’ve told you. I’m Med Service. I have a job to do here to repair what wasn’t done before. I should make a planetary health inspection and make recommendations for the improvement of the state of things. I’ll be glad if you’ll arrange for me to talk to your health officials. Things look bad, and something should be done.”

Someone laughed without mirth.

“What will you recommend for long-continued undernourishment?” he asked derisively. “That’s our health problem!”

“I recommend food,” said Calhoun.

“Where’ll you fill the prescription?”

“I’ve the answer to that, too,” said Calhoun curtly. “I’ll want to talk to any space-pilots you’ve got. Get your astrogators together and I think they’ll approve my idea.”

The silence was totally skeptical.

“Orede...”

“Not Orede,” said Calhoun. “Weald will be hunting that planet over for Darians. If they find any, they’ll drop bombs here.”

“Our only space-pilots,” said a tall man, presently, “are on Orede now. If you’ve told the truth, they’ll probably head back because of your warning. They should bring meat.”

His mouth worked peculiarly, and Calhoun knew that it was at the thought of food.

“Which,” said another man sharply, “goes to the hospitals! I haven’t tasted meat in two years!”

“Nobody has,” growled another man still. “But here’s this man Calhoun. I’m not convinced he can work magic, but we can find out if he lies. Put a guard on his ship. Otherwise let our health men give him his head. They’ll find out if he’s from this Medical Service he tells of! And this Maril--”

“I--can be identified,” said Maril. “I was sent to gather information and sent it in secret writing to one of us on Trent. I have a family here. They’ll know me! And I--there was someone who was working on foods, and I believe he--made it possible to use--all sorts of vegetation for food. He will identify me.”

Someone laughed harshly.

“Oh, yes!” said a man with a blue forehead. “He’s a valuable man! Within the year he’s come up with a way to make his weeds taste like any food one chooses. If we decide to cut our population, we’ll simply give the people to be eliminated all they want to eat of his products. They’ll not be hungry. They’ll be quite happy. But they’ll die for lack of nourishment. He’s volunteered to prove it painless by going through it himself!”

Maril swallowed.

“I’d like to see him,” she repeated. “And my family.”

Some of the blue-splotched men turned away. A broad-shouldered man said bluntly;

“Don’t look for them to be glad to see you. And you’d better not show yourself in public. You’ve been well fed. You’ll be hated for that.”

Maril began to cry. Murgatroyd said bewilderedly;

“Chee! Chee!“

Calhoun held him close. There was confusion. And Calhoun found the Minister of Health at hand--he looked most harried of all the officials gathered to question Calhoun--and proposed that he get a look at the hospital situation right away.

It wasn’t practical. With all the population on half rations or less, when night came people needed to sleep. Most people, indeed, slept as many hours out of the traditional twenty-four as they could manage. It was much more pleasant to sleep than to be awake and constantly nagged at by continued hunger. And there was the matter of simple decency. Continuous gnawing hunger had an embittering effect upon everyone. Quarrelsomeness was a common experience. And people who would normally be the leaders of opinion felt shame because they were obsessed by thoughts of food. It was best when people slept.

Still, Calhoun was in the hospitals by daybreak. What he found moved him to savage anger. There were too many sick children. In every case undernourishment contributed to their sickness. And there was not enough food to make them well. Doctors and nurses denied themselves food to spare it for their patients.

Calhoun brought out hormones and enzymes and medicaments from the Med Ship while the guard in the ship looked on. He demonstrated the processes of synthesis and autocatalysis that enabled such small samples to be multiplied indefinitely. He was annoyed by a clamorous appetite. There were some doctors who ignored the irony of medical techniques being taught to cure non-nutritional disease, when everybody was half-fed, or less. They approved of Calhoun. They even approved of Murgatroyd when Calhoun explained his function.

He was, of course, a Med Service tormal, and tormals were creatures of talent. They’d originally been found on a planet in the Deneb area, and they were engaging and friendly small animals, but the remarkable fact about them was that they couldn’t contract any disease. Not any. They had a built-in, explosive reaction to bacterial and viral toxins, and there hadn’t yet been any pathogenic organism discovered to which a tormal could not more or less immediately develop antibody-resistance. So that in interstellar medicine tormals were priceless. Let Murgatroyd be infected with however localized, however specialized an inimical organism, and presently some highly valuable defensive substance could be isolated from his blood and he’d remain in his usual exuberant good health. When the antibody was analyzed by those techniques of microanalysis the Service had developed, --why--that was that. The antibody could be synthesized and one could attack any epidemic with confidence.

The tragedy for Dara was, of course, that no Med Ship had come there, three generations ago, when the Dara plague raged. Worse, after the plague Weald was able to exert pressure which only a criminally incompetent Med Service director would have permitted. But criminal incompetence and its consequences was what Calhoun had been loaned to Sector Twelve to help remedy.

He was not at ease, though. No ship arrived from Orede to bear out his account of an attempt to get that lonely world evacuated before Weald discovered it had blueskins on it. Maril had vanished, to visit or return to her family, or perhaps to consult with the mysterious Korvan who’d arranged for her to leave Dara to be a spy, and had advised her simply to make a new life somewhere else, abandoning a famine-ridden, despised, and outcast world. Calhoun had learned of two achievements the same Korvan had made for his world. Neither was remarkably constructive. He’d offered to prove the value of the second by dying of it. Which might make him a very admirable character, or he could have a passion for martyrdom, --which is much more common than most people think. In two days Calhoun was irritable enough from unaccustomed hunger to suspect the worst of him.

And there was Weald to worry about. Weald was hysterically resolved to end what it considered the blueskin menace for once and for all. There were parallels to such unreasoning frenzy even in the ancient history of Earth. A word still remained in the dictionaries referring to it. Genocide.