“Yes, sir.” He noticed with keen interest the small grayhaired man in the wheelchair. “Good afternoon, Professor Newland. Here is your lunch finally.” He uncovered the tray and began laying out the dishes on the table.
“Did I hear you say someone was ill?”
“Yes, sir. Very unfortunate.” He was near enough now, and he slipped out, moved across the void and was in again, raising his head and hearing Winter’s voice: “Professor! Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he said. “What’s the matter with Kim?”
“He’s unconscious. I’d better call somebody.”
“First a woman in the hall, and now Kim. Do you suppose there’s some kind of contagion?”
He did not listen to the reply; he was absorbed in the complex network of his new host’s mind. He had expected that Newland would be interesting, and it was true: he was very interesting.
“Attention, all passengers and crew.” The voice echoed down the corridors. In the lounges and restaurants, the casino, the shopping mall, heads turned to look at television screens. A round, serious face. “This is Chief of Operations Bliss. I have to inform you that a possibly contagious disease has broken out on Sea Venture. The illness is marked by a sudden collapse. The patients are being cared for in our hospital, and they are in stable condition. There is no cause for undue alarm. You should be aware, however, that the illness is sometimes preceded by a temporary dizziness or a fainting spell. All those who have experienced anything of this kind in the presence of someone who has collapsed are asked to report to Dr. Wallace McNulty at his office on the Upper Deck. Further bulletins will be issued from time to time. Thank you for your cooperation.”
A blue-haired old woman, who heard this, put her bird’s-foot hand to her mouth.
“What’s the matter, Fran?” said her husband.
“Why, I felt faint, you remember—when that man fell down in the lobby?”
“Oh, my gosh. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. I guess we’d better go find out, though. Do you think?”
“Oh, dear. I suppose so. And here I thought I was going on this trip to get away from doctors.”
McNulty persuaded Frances Quincy and her husband to move into the isolation section. On the way she fell down senseless in the corridor, and he had another patient. An hour later the same thing happened all over again—a man this time, Chandragupta Devi, seventy-one. He had been passing in the hall when Mrs. Quincy was stricken. In he went.
McNulty fed his notes into the office computer. He had the places and approximate times of onset of all the patients, and they formed a coherent chain. The computer displayed them in the three-dimensional skeleton of Sea Venture, with colored lines between them. The lines started in the marine laboratory, went back into the crew quarters, then up to the Quarter Deck, then here and there in the passenger section. In almost every case he could match up the time when one victim collapsed with the time the next one felt dizzy. There were a few where the times didn’t match—three hours between Geller and Barlow, for instance—but that could be bad reporting or bad recollection.
What kind of epidemic was this, for God’s sake? It wasn’t spreading, it was being passed on to one victim at a time like the wand in a relay race. No wonder the experts couldn’t tell him anything. There had never been anything like this in the world before.
17
Wednesday morning word came from Bliss’s office that reporters from the networks wanted to interview McNulty. One of Bliss’s deputies brought down a TV camera, and McNulty went through his paces for NBC, CBS, ABC, and PBS. It took nearly an hour. That afternoon he had the privilege of watching himself on the evening news. After disposing of a freak auto accident in Los Angeles, the peace conference in Nairobi, and the weather in the Midwest, the blond newsperson said, “Last Friday a mysterious epidemic swept the floating city, Sea Venture, now in mid-Paciftc waters.” An image of Sea Venture appeared on the rear screen, sparkling white under a smiling sky.
“Medical authorities are baffled. The only doctor on board is the resident physician, director of Sea Venture’s health services, Dr. Wallace McNulty. We talked to Dr. McNulty earlier today by satlink.”
The hideously enlarged image of McNulty’s face appeared in the screen. It smiled insincerely. Watching, McNulty winced.
“Dr. McNulty, what can you tell us about the state of the epidemic on Sea Venture?”
“It’s about the same,” said the bloated McNulty in a creaky voice. “We’re getting three to four cases a day.”
“And the nature of the disease has not been identified, is that correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“What are the symptoms, Dr. McNulty?”
“Sudden collapse, stupor.”
“In other words, the patient goes into a kind of coma?”
“Not a coma. They’re semiconscious, but they don’t respond.”
“What medications have you tried, Doctor?”
“Broad-spectrum antibiotics. They don’t do a thing.” There was a great technical phrase for you—really impressive.
“Dr. McNulty, you’re a general practitioner, is that right?” “Yes.”
“And before you came to Sea Venture, you had a family practice in Santa Barbara?”
“Yes, that’s right.” McNulty was sweating all over again, remembering how he had feared, against all reason, that the next question was going to be, “Are you the Dr. Wallace McNulty who—?”
“Doctor, do you think a medical specialist would be able to handle this epidemic better?”
“I don’t know what kind of specialist. It isn’t any known disease. I’ve consulted with epidemiologists and the top people in tropical diseases. We’ve run every test we can think of.” Defensive. Would anybody trust their life to this man, or even buy a used car from him?
“And nothing is helping?”
“Not so far.” Where was the reassurance, the fatherly glint of compassion in the eye? Why couldn't he be like the doctors on “Life Squad”?
“Doctor, what kind of help would you like from the American people?”
“Well, you could pray for us.”
Great. A little touch of piety. If you can’t get competent medical attention, McNulty thought, you can always pray. The blond newsperson, staring earnestly into the camera, was saying, “Meanwhile, a downed reconnaissance airplane in Tel Aviv Crater—” McNulty turned the set off.
On Tuesday there was a satellite call from the President, carried by the public television screens throughout Sea Venture. Bliss’s voice was heard, but only the President’s face appeared. The President was in the Oval Office, behind the famous desk with its Mickey Mouse figures. “Captain Bliss, I want you to know that the hearts of the American people are going out to you in this terrible emergency.”
"That’s very good to know, sir.”
“And we realize, of course, that you’re doing everything that can be done. We have complete confidence in you. Captain.”
“Thank you. sir.”
“And I’ve asked my staff to keep me informed of every development, day or night, and, Captain Bliss, we’re having a special prayer meeting here tomorrow morning to ask for your safe recovery from this tribulation. And I know you’re going to come through all right.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Bliss.
“Good-bye for now, and God bless you all.”
The patients kept coming in, three a day, then four and five; the rooms in the isolation corridor were beginning to fill up. By the eighth day there were thirty-two victims. McNulty had left word with the night nurses to call him if there was any change, and every night he slept fitfully, expecting his phone to buzz, but it didn’t.