“Huh?”
“They are sending me some from Paris; it should arrive any minute now. I do hope it’s still potent.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Well, we have the means to make it. We’ll have to make it, of course, if this wild scheme is used—millions of units of it.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I said. “I know the general will be pleased.” I started to turn away; he stopped me.
“Uh, Mr. Nivens—”
“Yes?”
“About the matter of vectors—”
“Vectors?” At the moment all the word meant to me was little arrows pointing in various directions.
“Disease vectors. We can’t use rats or mice or anything like that. Do you happen to know how the fever is transmitted on Venus? By a little flying rotifer, the Venerian equivalent of an insect—but we don’t have such here and that is the only way it can be carried.”
“Do you mean to say you couldn’t give it to me if you tried? Even with a jugful of live culture?”
“Oh, yes—I could inject you with it. But I can’t picture a million paratroopers dropping into Zone Red and asking the parasite-ridden population to hold still while they gave them injections.” He spread his hands helplessly.
Something started turning slowly over in my brain . . . a million men, in a single drop. “Why ask me?” I said. “It seems to be a medical problem.”
“Uh, yes, it is of course. I just thought—Well, you seemed to have a ready grasp—” He paused.
“Thanks.” My mind was struggling with two problems at once and beginning to have traffic problems. How many people were there in Zone Red? “Let me get this straight: suppose you had the fever and I didn’t; I could not catch it from you?” The drop could not be medical men; there weren’t that many.
“Not very easily. If I took a live smear from my throat and placed it in your throat, you might contract it. If I opened a vein of mine and made a trace transfusion to your veins, you would be sure to be infected with it.”
“Direct contact, eh?” How many people could one paratrooper service? Ten? Twenty? Thirty? Or more? “If that is what it takes, you don’t have any problem.”
“Eh?”
“What’s the first thing one slug does when he runs across another slug he hasn’t seen lately?”
“Conjugation!”
” ‘Direct conference’, I’ve always called it—but then I use the sloppy old slug language for it. Do you think that would pass on the disease?”
“Think so? I’m sure of it! We have demonstrated, right here in this laboratory, that there is actual exchange of living protein during conjugation. They could not possibly escape direct transmission; we can infect the whole colony as if it were one body. Now why didn’t I think of that?”
His words roused out a horrid memory, something about, “Would that my subjects had but one neck—” But I refrained from quoting it. “Don’t go off half cocked,” I said. “Better try it first. But I suspect that it will work.”
“It will, it will!” He started to go, then stopped. “Oh, Mr. Nivens, would you mind very much—I know it’s a great deal to ask—”
“What is? Speak up; I’m getting hungry.” Actually I was anxious to work out the rest of the other problem.
“Well, would you consider permitting me to announce this method of vectoring in my report this morning? I’ll give you full credit, but the general expects so much and this is just what I need to make my report complete.” He looked so anxious that I almost laughed.
“Not at all,” I said. “It’s your department.”
“That’s decent of you. I’ll try to return the favor.” He turned away feeling happy and I turned back feeling the same way. I was beginning to like being a “genius”.
I waited before reopening the door to our cubicle until I had straightened out in my mind all the main features of the big drop. Then I went in. Mary opened her eyes when I came in and gave me that long heavenly smile. I reached down and smoothed her hair. “Howdy, flame top, did you know that your husband is a genius?”