Plague

Ivor Glantz and Manny Friedman pushed open the swing doors and went to their places. Across the court, a thin, blue-suited figure with a gray crewcut, Sergei Forward the Finnish-born bacteriologist, was consulting with his lawyer. He was a calm polite man with a meticulous accent and a way of leaning forward when he spoke, like a near-sighted stork investigating an appetizing grub. He didn't look up when Glantz and Friedman came in.

By three o'clock, the courtroom was filled. There was a high burble of conversation — more intense than this morning. News of the Florida plague had spread, and every science journal and bacteriological expert in the place was discussing it. To them, it was the hottest medical story in years.

Esmeralda, severe and elegant in a pale pink 1930s suit, her curls tucked into a pink turban hat with a diamond brooch and a feather, came into the courtroom just before the judge. She sat down behind her stepfather, in a heady cloud of Chant d'Arfimes, and touched his shoulder.

'Have you heard about the plague?' she whispered. 'Isn't that awful?'

'I heard over lunch,' Ivor whispered back. 'I'm only guessing, but I'd say it's even worse than they're pretending.'

'The Army have sealed off Pensacola and Mobile,' said Esmeralda. I just heard it on the car radio. They say that people are dying at the rate of two thousand a day.'

At that moment, Judge Secombe came into the courtroom, and they all stood. When he had sat down and put on his spectacles, Sergei Forward's attorney raised his hand to make an application.

'My client respectfully wishes to apply for adjournment, your honor. While he appreciates the serious consequences of this action for infringement of patent, he believes he can make a material contribution to the government research work to find an antidote for the plague that we now hear is threatening our southern states. Mr. Forward is sure that Mr. Glantz will not stand in his way in this crucial emergency, and he hopes that Mr. Glantz will perhaps also wish to join in the government research work.'

Manny Friedman swore under his breath. 'What does he mean,' Ivor Glantz asked. 'He can't do this.'

Manny Friedman said, 'He can and he has. Unless you agree to an adjournment, you're going to look like a self-centered schmuck who puts his own money-making before the good of America. He's got you, right by the balls.'

Ivor frowned. 'But why does he want an adjournment? What for?'

Manny shrugged. 'Don't ask me. Whatever he's up to, I don't like it.'

Judge Secombe called for Manny Friedman's attention. 'Mr. Friedman,' he said, 'does your client have any strong feelings about an adjournment?'

Manny Friedman stood up. 'My client appreciates Mr. Forward's devotion to public service, your honor, but does not regard an adjournment necessary. This action can only take one more day at most, and twenty-four hours is hardly likely to make any material difference to Mr. Forward's research. Perhaps I can remind the bench that most of the great breakthroughs in bacteriology only came after years of intensive labor — including the process claimed by my client under this present action.'

Sergei Forward's attorney protested. 'Your honor, we believe that twenty-four hours — even four hours — could be vital. This plague has infected an entire state in a week. People are dying right now, even as we speak.' Manny Friedman glanced down at Ivor Glantz, who shrugged helplessly. Then he looked at the press table, where reporters from The New York Times, The Daily News and Associated Press sat with their pens poised, eager for any story that would tie up with the plague. He could see the headlines now. 'No Mercy Adjournment, Insists Litigating Scientist.'

Manny said quietly, 'Very well. We will agree to an adjournment until the present national crisis has passed.'

Judge Secombe said, 'Adjourned sine die,' and rose. The court rose, too, and people began to shuffle out.

While Manny Friedman busied himself gathering his papers, Ivor Glantz sat still, his head in his hands. Esmeralda came and sat next to him, and stroked his few sparse curls.

'Papa,' she said. 'It's not the end of the world.'

He grunted. Then he smiled warmly, and took her hand. 'Don't mind me,' he said. 'I'm disappointed, that's all.'

'Don't worry,' she reassured him. 'As soon at the plague is over, you can apply for the hearing to continue.'

Ivor rubbed his eyes tiredly. 'The way this plague's spreading, that could be never. If it goes on like this, we'll all be six feet underground by the time this action gets heard.'

'You don't think it's that serious, do you?'

He shrugged. 'I don't know. What disturbs me is that they don't have any way to cure it. We're all so used to living in a society that protects us with drugs and medicines that when we're exposed to something really deadly, we don't take proper precautions.'

'Come on, Ivor,' Manny Friedman said. 'This whole thing will fade away in two weeks, just like swine flu did. One minute it's panic stations, the next minute everybody's saying, "Plague? what plague? — never heard of no plague!"'

Friedman led the way out of the courtroom. 'What will you do now?' he asked over his shoulder. 'Do you want to see if you can bring the action forward to a specific date?'

Ivor shook his head. 'I don't know yet. This thing has cost me a goddamned mint as it is. I have five corporations wetting their pants to buy this process, and until I can clear it through the courts, I'm fucked.'

Outside the courthouse, in the humid afternoon sun, they met Sergei Forward and his attorney. Forward came up to Ivor with his hand extended, and a watery smile on his lean, Nordic features. 'I hope there are no tough feelings,' he said. Ivor ignored the Finn's hand, and pulled a face. 'It is our patriotic duty, you know — as Americans,' Forward added.

Ivor turned and stared at him. 'You've been an American for precisely four months,' he said sarcastically. 'When I need lessons in patriotism from you, I'll pack my case and go live in Russia.'

Manny Friedman took Ivor's arm. 'Come on, Ivor, don't get involved in a fight. He's up to something, and there's no point in losing your cool until you know what it is.'

Ivor shouted angrily, 'No half-baked Finnish quack is going to — '

'Yes, he is,' insisted Friedman, and pulled Ivor away. 'I'm your attorney, and when I say leave off, I say it for your own good.'

Esmeralda, following close behind, said, 'He's right, papa. Let's just have a drink and forget about it.'

Ivor surrendered, and took his stepdaughter's hand. 'Okay, Es. You win. I could do with a quart of Scotch right now.'

They walked around the block to the meter where Esmeralda's Skylark was parked. Manny climbed into the back, and Esmeralda herself was about to get in when someone called, 'Miss Baxter!'

Esmeralda turned. A tall, good-looking young man in a pale suit was waving to her across the street. 'Are you calling me?' she asked.

The young man dodged a passing cab, and came across the street. He was a little out of breath. He had dark, slightly Italian looks, with black curly hair, a straight nose, and a firmly-cleft chin.

'I hope you don't mind, Miss Baxter,' he said, 'but I've been wanting to meet you for some time. You are the Esmeralda Baxter who runs Esmeralda's gallery, aren't you?'

Esmeralda looked puzzled. 'That's right, I am. But should I know you? I don't recall your face.'

The young man grinned. 'Oh — I'm sorry. My name's Charles Thurston. Charles Thurston III, actually, but my father and my grandfather were so undistinguished that nobody gets confused. I write books on art. Maybe you saw my book on Man Ray.'

Esmeralda blushed slightly. 'I'm afraid I didn't. Listen — do you want to make an appointment to see me? I'm pretty tied up right now.'