Would the gorilla, frustrated in the use of the man-made injector, resort to tooth and claw? That possibility made “X” battle with frenzied force. The lives of hundreds, perhaps thousands, were linked up with his lonely struggle against horrible death.
He panted, jerked an arm free, lashed out with clenched fist. The hairy creature grunted, seemed dazed for a moment. Then, with a guttural snarl, it tried to pin Agent “X” to the ground. For a moment, “X” was underneath. For a moment his grasp of the creature’s wrist, the wrist that held that terrible metal injector, weakened.
The hairy coat of this inhuman monster made it hard for “X” to retain his grasp. But he knew a dozen tricks of leverage. He knew how to make use of his own strength and weight. He heaved upward, pushed back, toppled the creature off him, still retaining his grip on its arm.
The Agent’s pulses were hammering. A vivid light glowed in his eyes. There was that in this ape’s actions that puzzled him — caused a dark, incredible suspicion to leap into his mind. But it was no more than a suspicion. There was no proof yet. There could be no proof unless he captured this fighting fury which sought to conquer him.
He tried to get his free fingers around the creature’s throat But the ape struck “X” an agonizing blow in the side with upthrust knee. The full force of it landed on that puckered X-shaped scar close to the Agent’s heart. Pain from the old wound blossomed into life, gripped Agent “X” with paralyzing fingers of quivering agony.
And in that moment, unable to move or breathe, his fingers on the great furred paw relaxed. The thing sprang away into the darkness, raced across the black lawn toward the spruce trees and disappeared behind them.
Panting, the sweat of pain cold on his forehead, “X” rose to his feet. By sheer will power he conquered that wrenching agony in his side. He dropped to hands and knees, groping for his gas gun. He found it, and a moment later his left hand encountered the cold cylinder of his flashlight. But the other thing he sought — the metal, tooth-shaped injection device, which he had hoped the furred monster had dropped, was nowhere to be found.
FOR another hour, grim-eyed, he hunted dark lawns and streets. He had kept the sinister germs of encephalitis from entering his blood, but he had lost in his first real encounter with this mysterious hairy emissary of microbe death.
It seemed that his battle with the furred creature had driven it and the others off for good that night. Agent “X” wished now that he had come armed with a real bullet-shooting gun as well as his gas pistol.
It was after eleven when he got back to the spot where he had parked his car. He drove toward the health commissioner’s office. As he neared, the Agent tensed. The fear-inspired quiet of Branford’s streets was broken now, and in its stead sounded the clamor of an angry mob.
Torches made lurid light along the block. Swarming hundreds had gathered before the city hall. In their midst, a soap-box orator was shouting. Of huge proportion, with an ugly pockmarked face, there was a kind of twisted intelligence in the man’s features. Fanaticism fed the smoldering gleam in his eyes. His voice rose with a harsh note of passion:
“Are we to stand like dumb beasts doing nothing while disease spreads among us and devours our children? These clever ‘priests of science’—what are they? Fools! And you are fools to look to them for help. Who loosed the scourge among us? They did — and they must be punished! But we must be allowed to leave the city before it is too late!”
“X” shouldered his way through the muttering crowd. He strode up the steps of city hall. The voice of the radical fanatic screeched after him.
“Look — there goes another doctor! What good are these medical men in a time of need? They are fools, fools, fools!”
The crowd took up the cry. Jeers and catcalls followed “X.”
A knot of policemen barred his way, nervously watching the angry mob. “X’s” credentials as Doctor Julius Smith admitted him. He found that the commissioner of health had returned. The commissioner was in his office in conference with one of Branford’s harassed physicians, but he granted “X” an immediate interview.
Traub was a ponderously built man of the politician type. Small, shrewd eyes gleamed in his florid face. “X” introduced himself and Traub gestured with a fat hand toward the man beside him.
“This is Doctor Roeber. He’s handling some of the worst cases of sleeping sickness in the town. He was telling me about ’em.”
“X” nodded to Roeber, a forceful-looking man whose manner held reserve and dignity. Traub’s exact opposite in type. Then the Secret Agent looked up and caught the commissioner staring at him in sharp speculation. “X” had a momentary qualm. Traub was no fool. Was it possible he knew there was no Doctor Julius Smith in the Public Health Service? Branford’s commissioner spoke heavily.
“Your credentials, if you don’t mind, doc. In times like these the city is full of fakers. We’ve had to arrest a dozen quacks who risked disease in their efforts to gyp some of our citizens.”
“X” handed the commissioner his papers. Traub studied them, chewing on his unlighted cigar. He nodded, handed the papers back, tipped his cigar ceilingward at a belligerent angle.
“Well, doc — I suppose the Government is going to take a hand and fix things up in a big way.”
There was a thinly veiled sneer in Traub’s voice. He apparently resented outside interference even in this emergency. He thrust a fat finger toward “X.”
“We’re doing everything that can be done now. This thing will have to run its course like other epidemics. Our doctors and health department officials are working day and night. I hope when you go back to Washington you’ll give us credit.”
“X” started to answer, cocked his head and listened. The cries of the mob outside were like the roar of an angry sea as the orator whipped his listeners to an emotional pitch. Agent “X” nodded in the direction of the street.
“How are you going to deal with that?” he asked. “Mob violence can’t be ignored, Traub.”
“Oh, that’s that red, Vronsky,” the commissioner grunted angrily. “He’s a trouble-maker. We tried to arrest him a week ago — and the city employees threatened a general strike if we did. We’ve been forced to combat his crazy speeches with counterpropaganda. I’ve got something to quiet them now.”
The fat commissioner leaned forward, his voice sinking to a confidential whisper. He winked at Doctor Roeber and at Secret Agent “X.”
“You’ve heard of Doctor Vaughton, Smith?”
The Secret Agent nodded. “You mean John Vaughton — the expert on African sleeping sickness?”
“Exactly — and he’s in this country now. Arrived yesterday. He’s due to be in Branford tomorrow. Doc Gollomb of Drexel Institute radioed him. We’re releasing the news through the press right now. It will be spread across the front pages of the early morning editions. That ought to quiet the people.”
“He has a cure then?”
Traub’s eyes became the shrewd eyes of a politician.
“No — but the people think he has. They don’t know the difference between encephalitis and the African disease caused by the bite of the tsetse fly. They think a germ and a trypanosome are one and the same. They didn’t go to medical school like I did and get educated.
“We’ve got to quiet them somehow. We’re letting them think that Doctor Vaughton is a wizard. We’re telling ’em everything will be jake when he arrives. He’ll be met at the station tomorrow with a brass band and everything, like a hero. He’s admitted to Gollomb he don’t think he can do anything for this kind of sleeping sickness — but I wired him to keep still about that. The citizens of this city have got to think he’s a big medicine man. If they don’t we’re gonna have riots and hell to pay.”