***
“How are you feeling, Mr. Jackson?” Hall asked.
The old man blinked his eyes and looked at Hall, in his plastic suit.
“All right. Not the best, but all right.”
He gave a wry grin.
“Up to talking a little?”
“About what?
“Piedmont.”
“What about it?”
“That night,” Hall said. “The night it all happened.”
“Well, I tell you. I’ve lived in Piedmont all my life. Traveled a bit– been to LA, and even up to Frisco. Went as far east as St. Louis, which was far enough for me. But Piedmont, that’s where I’ve lived. And I have to tell you–”
“The night it all happened,” Hall repeated.
He stopped, and turned his head away. “I don’t want to think about it,” he said.
“You have to think about it.”
“No.”
He continued to look away for a moment, and then turned back to Hall. “They all died, did they?”
“Not all. One other survived. ” He nodded to the crib next to Jackson.
Jackson peered over at the bundle of blankets. “Who’s that? ”
“A baby.”
“Baby? Must be the Ritter child. Jamie Ritter. Real young, is it?”
“About two months.”
“Yep. That’s him. A real little heller. Just like the old man. Old Ritter likes to kick up a storm, and his kid’s the same way. Squalling morning, noon, and night. Family couldn’t keep the windas open, on account of the squalling.
“Is there anything else unusual about Jamie?”
“Nope. Healthy as a water buffalo, except he squalls. I remember he was squalling like the dickens that night.
Hall said, “What night?”
“The night Charley Thomas brought the damned thing in. We all seen it, of course. It came down like one of them shooting stars, all glowing, and landed just to the north. Everybody was excited, and Charley Thomas went off to get it. Came back about twenty minutes later with the thing in the back of his Ford station wagon. Brand-new wagon. He’s real proud of it.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, we all gathered around, looking at it. Reckoned it must be one of those space things. Annie figured it was from Mars, but you know how Annie is. Lets her mind carry her off, at times. The rest of us, we didn’t feel it was no Martian thing, we just figured it was something sent up from Cape Canaveral. You know, that place in Florida where they shoot the rockets?”
“Yes. Go on.”
“So, once we figured that out good and proper, we didn’t know what to do. Nothing like that ever happened in Piedmont, you know. I mean, once we had that tourist with the gun, shot up the Comanche Chief motel, but that was back in ’48 and besides, he was just a GI had a little too much to drink, and there were exterminating circumstances. His gal run out on him while he was in Germany or some damn place. Nobody gave him a bad time; we understood how it was. But nothing happened since, really. Quiet town. That’s why we like it, I reckon.”
“What did you do with the capsule?”
“Well, we didn’t know what to do with it. Al, he said open ‘er up, but we didn’t figure that was right, especially since it might have some scientific stuff inside, so we thought awhile. And then Charley, who got it in the first place, Charley says, let’s give it to Doc. That’s Doc Benedict. He’s the town doctor. Actually, he takes care of everybody around, even the Indians. But he’s a good fella anyhow, and he’s been to lots of schools. Got these degrees on the walls? Well, we figured Doc Benedict would know what to do with the thing. So we brought it to him.
“And then?”
“Old Doc Benedict, he’s not so old actually, he looks ‘er over real careful, like it was his patient, and then he allows as how it might be a thing from space, and it might be one of ours, or it might be one of theirs. And he says he’ll take care of it, and maybe make a few phone calls, and let everybody know in a few hours. See, Doc always played poker Monday nights with Charley and Al and Herb Johnstone, over at Herb’s place, and we figured that he’d spread the word around then. Besides, it was getting on suppertime and most of us were a bit hungry, so we all kind of left it with Doc.”
“When was that?”
“Bout seven-thirty or so.”
“What did Benedict do with the satellite?”
“Took it inside his house. None of us saw it again. It was about eight, eight-thirty that it all started up, you see. I was over at the gas station, having a chat with Al, who was working the pump that night. Chilly night, but I wanted a chat to take my mind off the pain. And to get some soda from the machine, to wash down the aspirin with. Also, I was thirsty, squeeze makes you right thirsty, you know.”
“You’d been drinking Sterno that day?”
“Bout six o’clock I had some, yes.”
“How did you feel?”
“Well, when I was with Al, I felt good. Little dizzy, and my stomach was paining me, but I felt good. And Al and me were sitting inside the office, you know, talking, and suddenly he shouts, ‘Oh God, my head!’ He ups and runs outside, and falls down. Right there in the street, not a word from him.
“Well, I didn’t know what to make of it. I figured he had a heart attack or a shock, but he was pretty young for that, so I went after him. Only he was dead. Then … they all started coming out. I believe Mrs. Langdon, the Widow Langdon, was next. After that, I don’t recall, there was so many of them. Just pouring outside, it seemed like. And they just grab their chests and fall, like they slipped. Only they wouldn’t get up afterward. And never a word from any of them.”
“What did you think?”
“I didn’t know what to think, it was so damned peculiar. I was scared, I don’t mind telling you, but I tried to stay calm. I couldn’t, naturally. My old heart was thumping, and I was wheezin’ and gaspin’. I was scared. I thought everybody was dead. Then I heard the baby crying, so I knew not everybody could be dead. And then I saw the General.”
“The General?”
“Oh, we just called him that. He wasn’t no general, just been in the war, and liked to be remembered. Older’n me, he is. Nice fella, Peter Arnold. Steady as a rock all his life and he’s standing by the porch, all got up in his military clothes. It’s dark, but there’s a moon, and he sees me in the street and he says, ‘That you, Peter?’ We both got the same name, see. And I says, ‘Yes it is.’ And he says, ‘What the hell’s happening? Japs coming in? And I think that’s a mighty peculiar thing, for him to be saying. And he says, ‘I think it must be the Japs, come to kill us all.’ And I say, ‘Peter, you gone loco?’ And he says he don’t feel too good and he goes inside. Course, he must have gone loco, ’cause he shot himself. But others went loco, too. It was the disease.”
“How do you know?”
“People don’t burn themselves, or drown themselves, if they got sense, do they? All them in that town were good, normal folks until that night. Then they just seemed to go crazy.”
“What did you do?”
“I thought to myself, Peter, you’re dreaming. You had too much to drink. So I went home and got into bed, and figured I’d be better in the morning. Only about ten o’clock, I hear a noise, and it’s a car, so I go outside to see who it is. It’s some kind of car, you know, one of those vans. Two fellers inside. I go up to them, and damn but they don’t fall over dead. Scariest thing you ever saw. But it’s funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“That was the only other car to come through all night. Normally, there’s lots of cars.”
“There was another car?”
“Yep. Willis, the highway patrol. He came through about fifteen, thirty seconds before it all started. Didn’t stop, though; sometimes he doesn’t. Depends if he’s late on his schedule; he’s got a regular patrol, you know, he has to stick to.”
Jackson sighed and let his head fall back against the pillow. “Now,” he said, “if you don’t mind, I’m going to get me some sleep. I’m all talked out.”
He closed his eyes. Hall crawled back down the tunnel, out of the unit, and sat in the room looking through the glass at Jackson, and the baby in the crib alongside. He stayed there, just looking, for a long time.
23. Topeka
THE ROOM WAS HUGE, THE SIZE OF A FOOTBALL field. It was furnished sparsely, just a few tables scattered about. Inside the room, voices echoed as the technicians called to each other, positioning the pieces of wreckage. The post team was reconstructing the wreck in this room, placing the clumps of twisted metal from the Phantom in the same positions as they had been found on the sand.
Only then would the intensive examination begin.
Major Manchek, tired, bleary-eyed, clutching his coffee cup, stood in a corner and watched. To him, there was something surrealistic about the scene: a dozen men in a long, white-washed room in Topeka, rebuilding a crash.
One of the biophysicists came up to him, holding a clear plastic bag. He waved the contents under Manchek’s nose.
“Just got it back from the lab,” he said.
“What is it?”
“You’ll never guess.” The man’s eyes gleamed in excitement.
All right, Manchek thought irritably, I’ll never guess. “What is it?”
“A depolymerized polymer,” the biochemist said, smacking his lips with satisfaction. “Just back from the lab.”
“What kind of polymer?”
A polymer was a repeating molecule, built up from thousands of the same units, like a stack of dominos. Most plastics, nylon, rayon, plant cellulose, and even glycogen in the human body were polymers.
“A polymer of the plastic used on the air hose of the Phantom jet. The face mask to the pilot. We thought as much.”
Manchek frowned. He looked slowly at the crumbly black powder in the bag. “Plastic?”
“Yes. A polymer, depolymerized. It was broken down. Now that’s no vibration effect. It’s a biochemical effect, purely organic.”
Slowly, Manchek began to understand. “You mean something tore the plastic apart?”
“Yes, you could say that,” the biochemist replied. “It’s a simplification, of course, but–”
“What tore it apart?”
The biochemist shrugged. “Chemical reaction of some sort. Acid could do it, or intense heat, or…”
“Or?”
“A microorganism, I suppose. If one existed that could eat plastic. If you know what I mean.”
“I think,” Manchek said, “that I know what you mean.”
He left the room and went to the cable transmitter, located in another part of the building. He wrote out his message to the Wildfire group, and gave it to the technician to transmit. While he waited, he said, “Has there been any reply yet?”
“Reply, Sir?” the technician asked.
“From Wildfire,” Manchek said. It was incredible to him that no one had acted upon the news of the Phantom crash. It was so obviously linked…
“Wildfire, Sir?” the technician asked.
Manchek rubbed his eyes. He was tired: he would have to remember to keep his big mouth shut.
“Forget it,” he said.
***
After his conversation with Peter Jackson, Hall went to see Burton. Burton was in the autopsy room, going over his slides from the day before.
Hall said, “Find anything?”
Burton stepped away from the microscope and sighed. “No. Nothing.”
“I keep wondering,” Hall said, “about the insanity. Talking with Jackson reminded me of it. A large number of people in that town went insane– or at least became bizarre and suicidal– during the evening. Many of those people were old.”
Burton frowned. “So?”
“Old people,” Hall said, “are like Jackson. They have lots wrong with them. Their bodies are breaking down in a variety of ways. The lungs are bad. The hearts are bad. The livers are shot. The vessels are sclerotic.”
“And this alters the disease process?”
“Perhaps. I keep wondering. What makes a person become rapidly insane?”
Burton shook his head.
“And there’s something else,” Hall said. “Jackson recalls hearing one victim say, just before he died, ‘Oh, God, my head.’ ”
Burton stared away into space. “Just before death?”
“Just before.”
“You’re thinking of hemorrhage?”
Hall nodded. “It makes sense,” he said. “At least to check.”
If the Andromeda Strain produced hemorrhage inside the brain for any reason, then it might produce rapid, unusual mental aberrations.
“But we already know the organism acts by clotting.”
“Yes,” Hall said, “in most people. Not all. Some survive, and some go mad.”
Burton nodded. He suddenly became excited. Suppose that the organism acted by causing damage to blood vessels. This damage would initiate clotting. Anytime the wall of a blood vessel was torn, or cut, or burned, then the clotting sequence would begin. First platelets would clump around the injury, protecting it, preventing blood loss. Then red cells would accumulate. Then a fibrin mesh would bind all the elements together. And finally, the clot would become hard and firm.
That was the normal sequence.
But if the damage was extensive, if it began at the lungs and worked its way…
“I’m wondering,” Hall said, “if our organism attacks vessel walls. If so, it would initiate clotting. But if clotting were prevented in certain persons, then the organism might eat away and cause hemorrhage in those persons.”
“And insanity,” Burton said, hunting through his slides. He found three of the brain, and checked them.
No question.
The pathology was striking. Within the internal layer of cerebral vessels were small deposits of green. Burton had no doubt that, under higher magnification, they would turn out to be hexagonal in shape.
Quickly, he checked the other slides, for vessels in lung, liver, and spleen. In several instances he found green spots in the vessel walls, but never in the profusion he found for cerebral vessels.
Obviously the Andromeda Strain showed a predilection for cerebral vasculature. It was impossible to say why, but it was known that the cerebral vessels are peculiar in several respects. For instance, under circumstances in which normal body vessels dilate or contract– such as extreme cold, or exercise– the brain vasculature does not change, but maintains a steady, constant blood supply to the brain.
In exercise, the blood supply to muscle might increase five to twenty times. But the brain always has a steady flow: whether its owner is taking an exam or a nap, chopping wood or watching TV. The brain receives the same amount of blood every minute, hour, day.
The scientists did not know why this should be, or how, precisely, the cerebral vessels regulate themselves. But the phenomenon is known to exist, and cerebral vessels are regarded as a special case among the body’s arteries and veins. Clearly, something is different about them.
And now there was an example of an organism that destroyed them preferentially.
But as Burton thought about it, the action of Andromeda did not seem so unusual. For example, syphilis causes an inflammation of the aorta, a very specific, peculiar reaction. Schistosomiasis, a parasitic infection, shows a preference for bladder, intestine, or colonic vessels– depending on the species. So such specificity was not impossible.
“But there’s another problem,” he said. “In most people, the organism begins clotting at the lungs. We know that. Presumably vessel destruction begins there as well. What is different about–”
He stopped.
He remembered the rats he had anticoagulated. The ones who had died anyway, but had had no autopsies.
“My God,” he said.
He drew out one of the rats from cold storage and cut it open. It bled. Quickly he incised the head, exposing the brain. There he found a large hemorrhage over the gray surface of the brain.
“You’ve got it,” Hall said.
“If the animal is normal, it dies from coagulation, beginning at the lungs. But if coagulation is prevented, then the organism erodes through the vessels of the brain, and hemorrhage occurs.”