“You laymen think it’s all the same; Earth or any planet. Germs are germs and viruses are viruses. I tell you, you don’t understand the infinite possibilities for variation in the protein molecule. Even on Earth, every species has its own diseases. Some may spread over several species but there isn’t one single pathogenic life form of any type on Earth that can attack all other species.
“You think that a virus or a bacterium developing independently for a billion years on another planet with different amino-acids, different enzyme systems, a different scheme of metabolism altogether, is just going to happen to find Homo sapiens succulent like a lollipop. I tell you it is childishness.”
Novee, his physician’s soul badly pierced at having been lumped under the phrase, “you laymen,” was not disposed to let it go that easily. “Homo sapiens brings its own germs with it wherever it goes, Rod. Who’s to say the virus of the common cold didn’t mutate under some planetary influence into something that was suddenly deadly. Or influenza. Things like that have happened even on Earth. The 2755 para-meas—”
“I know all about the 27.55 para-measles epidemic,” said Rodriguez, “and the 1918 influenza epidemic, and the Black Death, too. But when has it happened lately? Granted the settlement was a matter of a century and more ago; still that wasn’t exactly pre-atomic times, either. They included doctors. They had supplies of antibiotics and they knew the techniques of antibody induction. They’re simple enough. And there was the medical relief expedition, too.”
Novee patted his round abdomen and said, stubbornly, “The symptoms were those of a respiratory infection; dyspnea—”
“I know the list; but. I tell you it wasn’t a germ disease that got them. It couldn’t be.”
“What was it, then?”
“That’s outside my professional competence. Talking from inside, I tell you it wasn’t infection. Even mutant infection. It couldn’t be. It mathematically couldn’t be.” He leaned heavily on the adverb.
There was a stir among his listeners as Mark Annuncio shoved his thin body forward into the space immediately before Rodriguez.
For the first time, he spoke at one of these gatherings.
“Mathematically?” he asked, eagerly.
Sheffield followed after, his long body all elbows and knees as he made a path. He murmured “Sorry” half a dozen times.
Rodriguez, in an advanced stage of exasperation thrust out his lower lip and said, “What do you want?”
Mark flinched. Less eagerly, he said, “You said you knew it wasn’t infection mathematically. I was wondering how… mathematics—” He ran down.
Rodriguez said, “I have stated my professional opinion.”
He said it formally, stiltedly, then turned away. No man questioned another’s professional opinion unless he was of the same specialty. Otherwise the implication, clearly enough, was that the specialist’s experience and knowledge was sufficiently dubious to be brought into question by an outsider.
Mark knew this, but then he was of the Mnemonic Service. He tapped Rodriguez’s shoulder, while the others standing about listened in stunned fascination, and said, “I know it’s your professional opinion, but still I’d like to have it explained.”
He didn’t mean to sound peremptory. He was just stating a fact.
Rodriguez whirled. “You’d like to have il explained? Who the eternal Universe are you to ask me questions.”
Mark was startled at the other’s vehemence, but Sheffield had reached him now, and he gained courage and with it, anger. He disregarded Sheffield’s quick whisper and said shrilly, “I’m Mark Annuncio of Mnemonic Service and I’ve asked you a question. I want your statement explained.”
“It won’t be explained. Sheffield, take this young nut out of here and tuck him into bed, will you? And keep him away from me after this. Young jackass.” The last was a clearly-heard aside.
Sheffield took Mark’s wrist but it was wrenched out of his grasp. The young Mnemonic screamed, “You stupid noncompos. You… you moron. You forgettery on two feet. Sieve-mind. Let me go, Dr. Sheffield—You’re no expert. You don’t remember anything you’ve learned, and you haven’t learned much in the first place. You’re not a specialist; none of you—”
“For space’s sake,” cried Cimon, “take the young idiot out of here, Sheffield.”
Sheffield, his long cheeks burning, stopped and lifted Mark bodily into the air. Holding him close, he made his way out of the room.
Tears squeezed out of Mark’s eyes and just outside the door, he managed to speak with difficulty. “Let me down, I want to hear—I want to hear what they say.”
Sheffield said, “Don’t go back in. Please, Mark.”
“I won’t. Don’t worry. But—”
He didn’t finish the but.
Inside the observatory room, Cimon, looking haggard, said, “All right. All right. Let’s get back to the point. Come on, now. Quiet! I’m accepting Rodriguez’s viewpoint. It’s good enough for me and I don’t suppose there’s anyone else here who questions Rodriguez’s professional opinion.”
(“Be Her not,” muttered Rodriguez, his dark eyes hot with sustained fury.)
Cimon went on. “And since there’s nothing to fear as far as infection is concerned, I’m telling Captain Follenbee that the crew may take surface leave without special protection against the atmosphere. Apparently the lack of surface leave is bad for morale. Are there any objections?”
There weren’t any.
Cimon said, “I see no reason also why we can’t pass on to the next stage of the investigation. I propose that we set up camp at the site of the original settlement. I appoint a committee of five to trek out there. Fawkes, since he can handle the coaster; Novee and Rodriguez to handle the biological data; Vernadsky and myself to take care of the chemistry and physics.
“The rest of you will, naturally, be apprised of all pertinent data in your own specialties, and will be expected to help in suggesting lines of attack, et cetera. Eventually, we may all be out there, but for the while only this small group. And until further notice, communication between ourselves and the main group on ship will be by radio only, since if the trouble, whatever it is, turns out to be localized at settlement site, five men are enough to lose.”
Novee said, “The settlement lived on Junior several years before dying out—over a year, anyway. It could be a long time before we are certain we’re safe.”
“We,” said Cimon, “are not a settlement. We are a group of specialists who are looking for trouble. We’ll find it if it’s there to find, and when we do find it, we’ll beat it. And it won’t take us a couple of years either. Now, are there any objections?”
There were none, and the meeting broke up.
Mark Annuncio sat on his bunk, hands clasped about his knee, chin sunken and touching his chest. He was dry-eyed now, but his voice was heady with frustration.
“They’re not taking me,” he said. “They won’t let me go with them.”
Sheffield was in the chair opposite the boy, bathed in an agony of perplexity. He said, “They may take you later on.”
“No,” said Mark, fiercely, “they won’t. They hate me. Besides, I want to go now. I’ve never been on another planet before. There’s so much to see and find out. They’ve got no right to hold me back if I want to go.”