Yet the previous team had eaten the fruits regularly. They must have climbed the trees to get at them. Dammit, how come they never fell out and needed to be patched up? How come? Neale asked, and no answer came.
Life moved along routinely in the survey camp for the next two days. Allenson’s team had already explored a fairly wide-ranging sector of the planet, taking specimens and photographs and recording ecological data. It was a simple matter for the members of Survey unit 1198 to follow in the paths of their predecessors.
Neale spent his days doing bacteriological analysis, which was his chief job aside from tending to the medical needs of his team. His task was to isolate cultures of the alien bacteria for experimental purposes.
In the days before the development of interstellar travel, it had been feared that alien bacteria might cause plagues if brought to Earth, might contaminate survey teams and bring strange new illnesses to harass mankind.
This had proved almost entirely false. The number of alien diseases which affected mankind or any Earthborn animal life at all was slim—less than a dozen so far, and none of them overly virulent. The reason was simple. The diseases did not fit the victims. The difference in metabolism was too great; they simply did not “take.” Neale often said that human beings were as deadly to alien bacteria as the bacteria were to the human beings, only more so.
Still, medical research proceeded. And during his days, while the other members of the expedition went about their allotted jobs, Neale peered through the eyepieces of his microscope and jotted down notes in his neat precise handwriting.
Unlike the others Neale had no beaten path to follow. Dr. Marsh’s notes had been “lost,” Allenson had told him, and so he was starting from scratch in his research.
That night, his wife returned from her ecological tour—and now she was puzzled.
“This is the strangest place!”
“How do you mean that?”
“The animal life, and the plant life—I’ve never seen such a perfectly balanced ecology, Mike! Everything in its place, no surpluses. Everything dovetails. Just the right number of birds and fish, the right sort of vegetation in the right places.”
“Is this unique?” Neale asked.
“It is on planets in the natural state—especially young ones like this. The ecological balance on this world is mature, almost over-mature. By that I mean that everything has fallen into balance, something that normally doesn’t happen until a world’s a couple of billion years out of the jungle stage.”
“Just another additional wrinkle,” Neale said. “What do your predecessor’s notebooks say about it?”
“Hardly anything!” Laura exclaimed. “That’s the oddest part. On some of the early pages of her notes there are some comments about the extraordinary balance of life here, the carnivore-herbivore ratio, things like that. But after the fifth or sixth page she ignores it. All the data is here, but she doesn’t bother to draw the obvious conclusions from it!”
“I don’t like this place,” Neale said. “I don’t like it. Not at all.”
On the third day, an ecological tour went out by helicopter to cover the distant sawbacked mountain range to the westward, near the great river which according to Allenson’s map divided the continent almost in half.
Aboard the copter was nearly the entire ecological team: Laura Neale, the Dollinsons, Ferd Gross, Don Kennedy. The only member of the ecology squad that stayed behind was Sallie Gross who was in sickbay with an inflamed wisdom tooth. (Another job for Neale, who deadened the pain with a localized neural sedative; apparently Allenson’s people had never had toothaches either. If they had had them they had borne them with Stoic calm, because the sedative supply was unopened.)
The camp seemed almost deserted while the ecology outfit was gone. Neale, missing his wife, threw himself vigorously into his bacteriological work; Belle Radek and Donna Harrell planned meals for the team several weeks ahead, while Peg Kennedy policed the grounds and tidied the offices.
Neale took advantage of the emptiness of the camp to get Coordinator Harrell aside and confide his fears.
“Clee, I’m scared. There are too many inconsistencies in the reports left us by Allenson’s bunch, and I’ve noticed some things I don’t like at all.”
Harrell’s smile darkened. “What do you mean, Mike?”
“I mean the business of their medic being dead so long, and of the untouched medical supplies. And of a thing Laura told me about the way this planet’s ecology is so perfectly balanced. Perfect things always make me suspicious; nature doesn’t ever operate perfectly. It just isn’t her way.”
“These are pretty vague points you’re making, Mike. I can’t see how—”
“You can’t see? Didn’t you see something funny about Allenson’s bunch? Their faces?”
Frowning, Harrell said, “No, can’t say that I did. They all were pretty pale but otherwise—”
“The paleness is part of it. But their eyes—cold and hard, no warmth in them. And they all had some kind of tic on the left side of their face.”
Harrell’s eyes widened. “Come to think of it—yes! When I spent some time with Allenson, I remember being annoyed by the way his cheek kept twitching. His left cheek. But—”
“I don’t have any glib explanations,” Neale said quietly. “But something happened to those eleven people while they were on this planet. I don’t know what it was, and I’m a long way from even being able to make a guess—but whatever it might have been, I wouldn’t want it to happen to us.”
Harrell nodded. “We’ll have to keep our eyes open. If you have anything further to report on this, let me know right away.”
There was nothing further for Neale to report that day, or the next. But on the next—the fifth day of Survey Unit 1198’s stay on Gamma Crucis VII—the ecology team returned from its journey across the mountains.
The helicopter hovered over the clearing a moment; then, rotors whirring, it descended. Mack Dollinson was the first one out looking grimy and unshaven after his three-day trip; he was followed by Laura Neale, Ferd Gross, Marie Dollinson and Don Kennedy.
Neale held his wife for a moment. Then the band of returnees opened the copter’s cargo hatch and brought forth several bales of specimens.
“Good trip eh?” Neale asked.
“Very fruitful,” Laura said. “We covered nearly a thousand square miles by random sampling. We found some very unusual froglike creatures that change shape when you poke them, and—why, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Neale said. He forced his sudden frown to melt away, and tried to look interested as Laura continued to tell him about their trip. “Mack was the lucky one, of course—he had Marie along with him. The rest of us looked on in envy. Miss me, Mike?”
“Sure Laura.” But the words came out abstractedly, and when she kissed him he responded with a half-hearted peck that drew an irritated little snort from her.
But at the moment he could not take time to be affectionate. He was staring at Ferd Gross, the slim darkly handsome botanist of the expedition.
Gross was standing by the helicopter, waiting his turn to go inside and unload the specimens he had brought back. All Neale could see of the botanist was the left side of his face.
Neale squinted to make sure. Yes. The skin around Gross’ left eye was spasming; every fifteen seconds or so his cheek would jerk upward in a sudden squint. And Gross had not had any record of neural disturbances before the landing on Gamma Crucis VII. He had acquired the facial tic since their arrival.
Neale’s throat felt dry. “Excuse me, Laura,” he said in a rasping tense voice. “I want to talk to Ferdie about something, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure—go ahead. I can wait.”
He grinned feebly, moved past her, and walked up to where Gross stood. The botanist was staring with ferocious concentration into the darkened helicopter; he did not turn as Neale walked up. The medic took advantage of Gross’ absorption to study the tic that had developed
on his face. Yes, he though, it was quite pronounced, a muscular convulsion of some sort.
He laid one cold hand on Gross’ shoulder. “Ferdie?”
Gross whirled like a surprised burglar. He ducked away, cringing, then said, “Oh—Neale. You surprised me.”
His voice was leaden and harsh. Gross had been an excellent baritone. But all tone had departed from his voice now; it seemed like a stranger’s voice.
And his eyes, Neale thought. Beast’s eyes.
Neale forced a smile. “How was the trip?”
“Oh—not bad.” The words seemed to emerge stiffly, as if Gross were fighting to get them out. He stuttered slightly on the initial consonants, and contorted his lips.
Neale waited. “Aren’t you going to ask me about Sallie and how she is?”
Blankness. “S-Sallie?”
“Yes. Your wife.”
Gross smiled suddenly as if comprehension were dawning. “Oh. Yes. Sallie. How is she?”
“Much better,” Neale said. “The swelling’s gone down, and I won’t have to pull the tooth after all. I’m damn glad it worked out this way. I hate pulling teeth. She’s asleep now—the sedative’s got her. You can see her later, though, in an hour or two.”
“That will be fi-fine,” Gross said with some effort. Neale felt a chill crawl over him. In the early stages of the disease, he thought, there was some motor and sensory impedance; in later stages, such as that of the Allenson team, the victim regained control over his voice and his muscles, except for the tell-tale tic of the left side of the face, which remained invariably.
Neale moistened his lips. “Take it easy, Ferdie.”
He crossed the clearing and found Laura. In a low, urgent voice he said: “Did anything peculiar happen to Ferdie during your trip?”
“Peculiar—why?”
“Because he’s sure as anything acting peculiar now. Was he alone for any length of time?”
“We all were. He was out collecting specimens. Radek fixed up walkie-talkies for us so we could go out separately and still maintain contact with each other.” Her face reflected sudden curiosity and fear. “What’s wrong, Mike? What’s happened?”
“I wish I knew,” Neale said hollowly. He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Stay here. I want to go talk to Harrell a minute.”
He caught sight of the tall figure of the team coordinator far at the other side of the clearing, near the specimen storage shack. Neale cupped his hands.
“Clee!”
Harrell turned and stared at him without saying anything. Neale trotted over to him.
“Well?” Harrell asked.
“That disease,” Neale said. “The thing Allenson’s bunch had, that I told you about day before yesterday? Well, Gross has it. Whatever it is, he caught it on that ecological expedition. He—”
“W-what disease?” Harrell asked coldly.
Neale stopped short and stared at the coordinator. Harrell’s eyes were narrowed, and they gleamed like taxidermist’s glass. And the left half of his upper lip was quivering almost imperceptibly, as if embodied with a life of its own.
“I—guess I was mistaken,” Neale said hastily. “Sorry to bother you, Clee. Sorry.”
So it’s hit us too, Neale thought. Gross…Harrell…and all the rest of us, one by one, as whatever it is (virus? protozoan? bacteria?) filters into our bodies and changes us.
It would make a good paper for the Annals of the Survey Corps, he thought wildly. It was so rare that any sort of alien life-form could have a biological effect on human beings—and here he was in a position to do a first-hand report. If he stayed uninfected.
Five days, and two of us have it. Who’ll be the next? Dollinson? Laura? Me?
He stepped out into the clearing. The ecologists were carrying their specimens up into the storage shack. Neale wondered if he could get hold of Ferd Gross on some pretext and examine him, try to discover just what effects this strange affliction had. But there was the risk of contracting it himself—
He looked at his watch. It was time to visit the infirmary to see how Sallie Gross was doing.
She sat upright in bed, a wan smile on her face; the swelling in her jaw had receded and she looked a little less grotesque.
“Sleep well?” Neale asked.
“Not bad. At least that darned throbbing’s stopped. Are you going to have to pull the tooth, Mike?”
“I doubt it,” he said, after a look. “The infection’s easing up.”
“I thought I heard a helicopter land. Is Ferdie back yet?”
Neale nodded. “I told him you were asleep. I’ll send him in now.” Silently he added, I’ll send in the thing that used to be Ferdie.
He found Gross outside, standing still with an aimless expression on his face. His eye was quivering rapidly. “Sallie’s awake,” Neale said. “She’d like to see you, Ferdie. In the infirmary.”
“Thank you,” Gross said stiffly.
He walked off, robot-like, toward the infirmary. Neale watched him a moment; then, hearing footsteps behind him, he turned and saw Sam Radek.
The signalman had the glassy-eyed look and the facial tic that stamped the victim of the alien disease. That makes three of us, Neale thought.
No. Four. Behind Radek came Marie Dollinson with the now-unmistakable symptoms evident on her face. It was spreading to the women now. The incubation period—was it five days? Would they all be transformed into stuttering robots by nightfall?
Neale stood with his hands held loosely, in frustration, knowing with a doctor’s despair that a new and strange disease was sweeping down on his people and that he did not know where to begin to fight back.
He heard a scream—a high, keening, woman’s scream, with a wobbly nerve-searing tremulo climax. He froze for a moment, then started to run toward the power shed, where Peg Kennedy had been checking the generators.
He pushed open the door of the shed just as Peg screamed a second time. The smell of burning flesh came drifting toward him. He spotted Peg huddled into herself on the floor, sobbing wildly and pointing.
Pointing toward the central power generator—where the seared and blackening body of Don Kennedy hung. The zoologist’s hands gripped the thousand-watt power leads, and his body was jerking and jumping convulsively with every surge of juice through it.
Neale moved quickly, throwing the knife switch that controlled the turbines. Power died away with a sickly whine. Hurriedly he cut in the auxiliary generators as the lights began to fade.
Rapid examination of Kennedy’s body told him that the zoologist was beyond medical help. Neale lifted Peg Kennedy to her feet and held her a moment, until the sobbing subsided.
“Peg,” he said softly. “Tell me what happened.” He noticed a horror-stricken group standing at the entrance to the power shack—Mack Dollinson, Donna Harrell, Laura, Belle Radek. None of the infected people were there.
“It—it was horrible. Don came in here—I was so glad to see him come back from that ecological expedition—but when he came in I hardly recognized him.”
“What do you mean?”
“His face—it was so different. His eyes were—were stranger’s eyes; they didn’t seem to know me. And one whole side of his face was writhing. As if the muscles were battling with each other. He stood right there”—she pointed to the middle of the floor—“and shook as if his body wanted to go in two different directions. Then he muttered something, deep and ugly-sounding, and jumped—right at the power leads.” Sobs racked her again. “I couldn’t move. Don—”
Neale felt sick despite his training. “Peg—try to believe me—I know why Don did what he did. He contracted an alien disease, a horrible one. He chose to die this way, while he still was master enough of himself to control his actions.”
He glanced at Dollinson. “Mack, give me some help. I want to take Kennedy’s body over to my office for an autopsy. I’m on the track of something big.”
The light burned late in Neale’s office. Once Laura came down to see if h
e planned to finish work and come to bed; but he told her he was busy, and did not let her enter the office or even peer past the door. He was relieved to see that as yet she still appeared normal.
He worked over Kennedy’s blackened and blistered body for hours, probing the tortured flesh with delicate micro-scalpels, laying bare nerve centers, tracing synapses. By the time he was satisfied, the dead man’s body was even less recognizable than it had been.
But now Neale understood the nature of the disease that had entirely infected the previous survey group, and which so far had taken at least five members of Survey Unit 1198.
He stared at the milk-white fibers that ran parallel to Kennedy’s nerve channels. They followed a course straight to the brain, and there they clustered in a complex ganglion that still lived, and writhed at the touch.
Neale looked at his watch. Time was 0100; it was late. But this was an emergency. He picked up the communicator and punched out a number. Mack Dollinson’s number.
The ecologist answered, and there was nothing sleepy in his voice. “Yes?”
“Mack, this is Neale. I’m down in my office and I’ve found something I want to show somebody. Anybody. Can you come over here right away?”
A moment’s pause. Then: “Yes. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, anyway.”
Dollinson arrived a few moments later, dressed in a light gown. He blinked in puzzlement at the sight of the dissected body spread out on the operating table. Neale noticed that Dollinson looked drawn and preoccupied, but that he showed no symptoms of the disease.
“Well?” Dollinson asked. “What has the autopsy turned up?”
“Plenty. But first—how’s Marie?”
Dollinson paled. “She’s—bad, Mike. Whatever this thing is that’s sweeping through the team, she’s got it. When we got into bed I touched her. She was like ice. She didn’t seem to know me.”
“Come here,” Neale said. “Look.”
He gestured with his scalpel. “I’ve laid Kennedy open and here’s what I’ve found. A parasitical nerve network running all through his body. Every muscle he has is hooked up to it. They all run to the brain, and cluster—here.” He indicated the ganglion, an inch square, nestling against Kennedy’s brain. “You’ll notice that the ganglion is on the right side of the brain. That’s why the facial tics always show up on the left side of the face, because the nerve centers of the brain exert sensory and motor control over the opposite sides of the body.”