Eric opened his instrument case.
At the wall map Minister Freneksy said, “Secretary, we must attend to this decisive detail before we can continue. Terran troops do not stand up well against the reegs’ new homeostatic bomb, hence I would like to relieve a million and a half of my own factory workers and put them into uniform, replacing them in Empire factories with Terrans. This is an advantage for you, Secretary, in that Terrans will not be fighting and dying in the lines but will be safe inside Empire factories. However, this must be done soon or not at all.” He added, “This explains my desire for an immediate conference at a superior level.”
Eric read, from the testing disc, a pressure of 290 for Molinari, an elevation unnaturally high and ominous.
“Bad, isn’t it?” Molinari said, resting his head on his arms. “Get Teagarden in here,” he instructed a robant. “I want him to confer with Dr. Sweetscent; tell him to be prepared to make a diagnosis on the spot.”
“Secretary,” Freneksy said, “we cannot continue unless you turn your attention to what I’m saying. My request for a million and a half Terran males and females for work in Empire factories—did you hear that? This crucial requisition must be honored at once; transport of these entities must begin no later than the end of this week, your time.”
“Um,” Molinari murmured. “Yes, Minister, I heard; I’m pondering this request.”
“There is nothing to ponder,” Freneksy said. “It must be achieved if we are to hold the line on Front C, where reeg pressure is now greatest. A breakthrough is imminent, and Terran brigades have not—”
“I’ll have to consult with my Labor Secretary,” Molinari said, after a long pause. “Get his approval.”
“We must have the one and a half million of your people!”
Reaching into his jacket, Molinari fished out his folded sheets of paper. “Minister, this statement which I—”
“Do I have your promise?” Freneksy demanded. “So that we can go on to other matters, now?”
“I’m sick,” Molinari said.
There was silence.
At last Freneksy said thoughtfully, “I am aware, Secretary, that your health has not been good for years now. Therefore I took the liberty of bringing an Empire physician with me to this conference. This is Dr. Gornel.” On the far side of the table a lank-faced ’Starman nodded curtly to the Mole. “I would like him to examine you, with a view toward making a permanent correction of your physical problems.”
“Thank you, Minister,” Molinari said. “Your kindness in bringing Dr. Gornel is deeply appreciated. However, I have my own staff physician here, Dr. Sweetscent. He and Dr. Teagarden are about to perform an exploratory examination to determine the cause of my hypertension.”
“Now?” Freneksy said, and showed, for the first time, a trace of genuine emotion. Amazed anger.
“My blood pressure is dangerously high,” Molinari explained. “If it continues I’ll lose my eyesight. In fact already I’m suffering impaired vision.” In a low voice he said to Eric, “Doctor, everything around me has become dim; I think I’m already blind. Where the hell’s Teagarden?”
Eric said, “I can seek for the source of the hypertension, Secretary; I have the necessary diagnostic instruments with me.” He reached into his case once more. “Initially I’ll give you an injection of radioactive salts which will carry through your bloodstream—”
“I know,” Molinari said. “And collect at the source of the vasoconstriction. Go ahead.” He rolled up his sleeve and held out his furry arm; Eric pressed the self-cleansing head of the injecting tube against a vein near the elbow and pressed the tab.
Severely, Minister Freneksy said, “What is taking place, Secretary? Can’t we continue with the conference?”
“Yes, go ahead,” Molinari said, nodding. “Dr. Sweetscent is merely making an exploration to—”
“Medical matters bore me,” Freneksy interrupted. “Secretary, there is a further proposal I wish to make to you now. First, I would like to have my physician, Dr. Gornel, placed permanently on your staff to supervise your medical care. Secondly, I have been informed by the Empire counterintelligence agency operating here on Terra that a group of malcontents, desiring an end to Terra’s participation in the war, are planning your assassination; hence I wish, for your safety, to provide you with a perpetual armed guard of ’Starmen commando troops who will, by their extreme courage and determination and efficiency, protect your person at all times. They number twenty-five, an adequate number, given their unique quality.”
“What?” Molinari said. He shuddered. “What do you find, doctor?” He seemed confused now, unable to keep his attention fixed on both Eric and the progress of the conference. “Wait, Minister.” To Eric he murmured, “What the hell do you find, doctor? Or did you just tell me? Sorry.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m blind!” His voice was filled with panic. “Do something, doctor!”
Eric, examining the sighting graph which traced the movement of the radioactive salts in Molinari’s circulatory system said, “There appears to be a stricture of the renal artery which passes through your right kidney. A ring which—”
“I know,” Molinari said, nodding. “I knew the stricture was in my right kidney; I’ve had it before. You’ll have to operate, doctor, and cut the ring or it’ll kill me.” He seemed too weak now to raise his head; he sat slumped over, face in his hands. “God, I feel terrible,” he mumbled. Then he raised his head and said to Freneksy, “Minister, I must undergo an immediate corrective operation to relieve this arterial stricture. We’ll have to postpone this discussion.” He rose to his feet, swayed, and then fell noisily back; Eric and the man from State caught him, helped him back into his chair. The Mole seemed incredibly heavy and inert; Eric could hardly support him, even with assistance.
Freneksy declared, “The conference must continue.”
“All right,” Molinari gasped. “I’ll have the operation while you talk.” He nodded weakly to Eric. “Don’t wait for Teagarden; get started.”
“Here?” Eric said.
“It’ll have to be,” Molinari whimpered. “Cut the ring, doctor, or I’m dead. I’m dying—I know it.” He slumped, then, against the table. And this time he did not draw himself back up to a sitting position; he remained as he was. Like some great discarded, tossed sack.
At the far end of the table UN Vice Secretary Rick Prindle said to Eric, “Begin, doctor. As he said, it’s urgent; you know that.” Obviously he—and the others present—had been through this before.
Freneksy said, “Secretary, will you empower Mr. Prindle to take your official place in Terra-Lilistar negotiations?”
There was no answer from Molinari; he had passed into unconsciousness.
From his case Eric lifted a small surgical homeostatic unit; it would suffice—he hoped—for the delicate operation. Drilling its own path, and closing the passage behind it, the tool would penetrate the dermal layer and then the omentum until it reached the renal stricture, whereupon, if it was behaving properly, it would begin construction of a plastic bypass for the arterial section; this would be safer, at the moment, than attempting to remove the ring.
The door opened and Dr. Teagarden entered; he hurried up to Eric, saw Molinari lying unconscious with his head on the table, and said, “Are you prepared to operate?”
“I have the equipment; yes, I’m ready.”
“No artiforg, of course?”
“It isn’t necessary.”
Teagarden took hold of Molinari by the wrist, measured his pulse; then he whipped out a stethoscope, unbuttoned the Secretary’s jacket and shirt, listened to his heart. “Weak and irregular. We’d better cool him off.”
“Yes,” Eric agreed, and brought a cold-pak assembly from his case.
Freneksy, coming over to see, said, “You’re going to lower his body temperature during the operation?”
“Yes, we’ll put him out,” Eric said. “The metabolic processes—”
“I don’t care
to hear,” Freneksy said. “Biological matters do not interest me; all I am concerned with is the evident fact that the Secretary is unable to continue at present with this discussion. A discussion for which we have traveled a number of light-years.” His face displayed a dull, baffled anger which he could not suppress.
Eric said, “We have no choice, Minister. Molinari is dying.”
“I realize that,” Freneksy said, and walked away, his fists clenched.
“He’s technically dead,” Teagarden said, still listening to Molinari’s heart action. “Put the freeze into effect at once, doctor.”
Eric swiftly attached the cold-pak to Moinari’s neck, started its self-contained compression-circuit up. The cold radiated out from it; he let go and turned his attention to the surgical tool.
Minister Freneksy conferred, speaking in his own tongue, with the Empire doctor; he lifted his head all at once and said crisply, “I would like Dr. Gornel to assist in this operation.”
Vice Secretary Prindle spoke up. “It can’t be permitted. Molinari has given strict orders that only his own staff doctors, chosen by himself personally, are to touch his person.” He nodded to Tom Johannson and his corps of Secret Service men; they moved closer to Molinari.
“Why?” Freneksy asked.
“They’re familiar with his case history,” Prindle said woodenly.
Freneksy shrugged, walked away; he seemed even more baffled now, even bewildered. “It’s inconceivable to me,” he said aloud, his back to the table, “that this could be permitted to happen, that Secretary Molinari could let his physical condition deteriorate to such a point.”
To Teagarden, Eric said, “Has this happened before?”
“You mean has Molinari died during a conference with the ’Starmen?” Teagarden smiled reflexively. “Four times. Right here in this room, even in the same chair. You may start your borer, now.”
Placing the homeostatic surgical tool against Molinari’s lower right side, Eric activated it; the device, the size of a shot glass, at once flung itself into activity, delivering first a strong local anesthetic and then beginning its task of cutting its way to the renal artery and the kidney.
The only sound in the room now was the whirring caused by the action of the tool; everyone, including Minister Freneksy, watched it disappear from sight, burrowing into Molinari’s heavy, motionless, slumped body.
“Teagarden,” Eric said, “I suggest that we keep—” He stood back and lit a cigarette. “Watch for a case of hypertension occurring somewhere here in the White House, another partially blocked renal artery or—”
“It’s come up already. A maid on the third floor. Hereditary malformation, as it has to be of course. But coming to a crisis in this woman during the last twenty-four hours because of an overdose of amphetamines; she began to lose her sight and we decided to go ahead and operate—that’s where I was when I was summoned here. I was just finishing up.”
“Then you know,” Eric said.
“Know what?” Teagarden’s voice was low, concealed from those across the table. “We’ll discuss it later. But I can assure you that I know nothing. Nor do you.”
Coming over to them, Minister Freneksy said, “How soon will Molinari be capable of resuming this discussion?”
Eric and Teagarden glanced at each other. Caught each other’s eye.
“Hard to say,” Teagarden said presently.
“Hours? Days? Weeks? Last time it was ten days.” Freneksy’s face writhed with impotence. “I am simply unable to remain here on Terra that long; the conference will have to be rescheduled for later in the year if it’s to be a wait of more than seventy-two hours.” Behind him his consulting staff, his military and industrial and protocol advisers, were already putting their notes away in their briefcases, closing up shop.
Eric said, “Probably he won’t be strong enough within the two-day period generally allowed in cases like this; his overall condition is too—”
Turning to Prindle, Minister Freneksy said, “And you decline any authority as Vice Secretary to speak in his place? What an abominable situation! It’s obvious why Terra—” He broke off. “Secretary Molinari is a personal friend of mine,” he said, then. “I’m keenly concerned as to his welfare. But why must Lilistar bear the major burden in this war? Why can Terra go on dragging her feet indefinitely?”
Neither Prindle nor the two doctors answered.
In his own language Freneksy spoke to his delegation; they rose en masse, obviously prepared to depart.
The conference, because of Molinari’s sudden near-fatal illness, had been called off. At least for now. Eric felt overwhelming relief.
Through his illness Molinari had escaped. But only temporarily.
Nevertheless, that was something. That was enough. The million and a half Terrans, demanded by Lilistar for its factories, would not be rounded up … Eric glanced at Teagarden, exchanged a brief flash of agreement and comprehension. Meanwhile, the borer went about its task, unaided, whining on.
A psychosomatic, hypochondriacal illness had protected the lives of a great many people and it made Eric rethink, already, the value of medicine, the effect of bringing about a “cure” for Molinari’s condition.
It seemed to him as he listened to the borer at work that he was now beginning to understand the situation—and what was really required of him by the ailing UN Secretary who lay against the conference table, neither seeing nor hearing, in a state where the problems of the discussion with Minister Freneksy did not exist.
Later, in his well-guarded bedroom, Gino Molinari sat propped up on pillows, weakly contemplating the homeopape the New York Times, which had been placed at his disposal.
“It’s okay to read, isn’t it, doctor?” he murmured faintly.
“I think so,” Eric said. The operation had been totally successful; the elevated blood pressure had been restored to a normal plateau, commensurate with the patient’s age and general condition.
“Look at what the damn papers are able to get wind of.” Molinari passed the first section to Eric.
POLICY MEET CALLED OFF ABRUPTLY
DUE TO SECRETARY’S ILLNESS. ’STAR
DELEGATION HEADED BY FRENEKSY IN
SECLUSION.
“How do they find those things out?” Molinari complained peevishly. “God, it makes me look bad; makes it obvious I finked out at a crucial time.” He glared at Eric. “If I had any guts I’d have stood up to Freneksy on that labor-force conscription demand.” He shut his eyes wearily. “I knew the demand was coming. Knew it last week, even.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Eric said. How much of the physiological fugal dynamism was comprehensible to Molinari? None of it, evidently; Molinari not only did not grasp the purpose of his illness—he did not even approve of it. And so it continued to function at an unconscious level.
But how long can this go on? Eric wondered. With such a powerful dichotomy between conscious aspiration and unconscious will to escape … perhaps, finally, an illness would be produced from which the Secretary would never emerge; it would not only be fatal, it would be final.
The door to the room opened; there stood Mary Reineke.
Taking her by the arm, Eric led her back out into the hall, shutting the door after them. “Can’t I see him?” she demanded indignantly.
“In a minute.” He studied her, still unable to determine just how well she understood the situation. “I want to ask you something. Has Molinari undergone any psychiatric therapy or analysis that you know of?” No mention existed in the file but he had a hunch.
“Why should he?” Mary toyed with the zipper of her shirt. “He’s not crazy.”
That certainly was true; he nodded. “But his physical—”
“Gino has bad luck. That’s why he’s always getting sick. You know no psychiatrist is going to change his luck.” Mary Reineke added with reluctance, “Yes, he did consult an analyst once, last year, a few times. But that’s top secret; if the homeopapes got hold of it—
”
“Give me the analyst’s name.”
“The hell I will.” Her black eyes snapped with hostile triumph; she glared at him unwinkingly. “I won’t even tell Dr. Teagarden, and him I like.”
“After watching Gino’s illness in action I feel I—”
“The analyst,” Mary broke in, “is dead. Gino had him killed.”
Eric stared at her.
“Guess why.” She smiled with the random malice of a teenage girl, the purposeless, delicious cruelty which took him back in a flash to his own boyhood. To the agonies such girls had caused him before. “It was something the analyst said. About Gino’s illness. I don’t know what it was but I assume he was on the right track … as you think you are. So do you really want to be so clever?”
“You remind me,” he said, “of Minister Freneksy.”
She pushed by him, toward Gino’s door. “I want to go on in; goodbye.”
“Did you know that Gino died there in that conference room today?”
“Yes, he had to. Just for a few moments, of course; not long enough to muddle his brain cells. And of course you and Teagarden cooled him right down; I know about that, too. Why do I remind you of Freneksy, that crulp!” She came back toward him, studying him intently. “I’m not like him at all. You’re just trying to make me sore so I’ll tell you something.”
Eric said, “What do you think I want you to tell me?”
“About Gino’s suicide impulses.” She spoke matter-of-factly. “He has them; everybody knows that. That’s why I was brought here by his relatives, to make sure somebody spent every night with him, snuggled right up against him in bed every hour or watching him while he paces around when he can’t sleep. He can’t be alone at night; he’s got to have me to talk to. And I can talk sense to him—you know, restore his perspective at four o’clock in the morning. That’s hard to do, but I do it.” She smiled. “See? Do you have somebody to do that for you, doctor? At your four a.m. moments?”