“The police should have the situation there under control by now.”
“We can’t rely on the police,” Dena said. “They are no more immune to the brain eaters than the employees of Biotron.”
Kitzmiller groaned in the back seat. “I wish we did not have to use that term.”
“We can call them anything you want, doctor, but thanks to Corey here, in the mind of the public they will forever be the brain eaters.”
Kitzmiller sat frowning for a minute. Finally, he shrugged. “After all, what does it matter what they are called? They exist.”
“Even the surgeon general will have to admit that now,” Corey said sourly.
“There must be an antidote,” Kitzmiller said. “Some way to destroy them. I should be working now to find it. All my notes are back there at Biotron. I am useless in a hotel.”
“We can at least do some preliminary planning,” Dena said. “I’ll stay and work with you while Corey finds out what he can about any official moves.”
“I detest hotels,” said Kitzmiller, returning to his original complaint.
“Holiday Inns are very nice,” Dena assured him as a sign loomed ahead of them.
“And it’s only temporary,” Corey said again.
“I suppose there is no choice,” the doctor said gloomily. “I hope you will hurry with whatever you have to do, Mr. Macklin. I should not have to remind you that time grows short.”
Something was critically different at the Herald building. There was the feeling of urgency as people strode in and out of the building with an air of grim purpose. But the difference was more than that. It was more than the missing laughter, the almost total lack of idle conversation among employees and visitors. Something vital to the building was missing. It took Corey a moment to recognize what it was. The heartbeat was stilled. The mighty presses down in the basement were not running. At a time of day when the rumble of the machinery should send a pulse through the entire twelve floors of the building, no papers were being printed.
The city room, usually a scene of semiorganized confusion, looked like a ship in the last stages of abandonment. Fewer than half the usual crew was there, cleaning out their desks. Each was absorbed by his own personal drama. They acknowledged Corey, if at all, with a distracted nod.
He hurried past the worried-looking staff and into the office of Porter Uhlander. The city editor sat behind his desk, hands clasped over his stomach, a vacant look in his eyes.
“What’s going on?” Corey demanded.
“Going on? Oh, hello, Corey. How’re they hanging?”
Corey walked closer and peered at the editor. “Are you on something, Porter?”
“Valiums, son. Wonderful little pills no bigger than a BB. Makes everything bearable. I should have discovered them long ago.”
“Shit,” Corey said.
Uhlander smiled beatifically. “You ought to try them yourself. You’re too tense. Take everything too seriously. You need to mellow down.”
“Damn it, Porter, I don’t want to mellow down. I want to know what’s going on here. Half the people who work in the city room are missing. The rest are cleaning out their desks.”
Uhlander smiled at him.
“And the presses have stopped.”
For the first time, the editor showed a little emotion. He said, “You noticed that. The Herald has suspended publication until …” The vague smile returned as Uhlander’s gaze drifted back toward the ceiling.
Corey waited. Finally, out of patience, he snapped, “Until when, Porter?”
“Until the disappearance of the brain eaters or the end of the world — whichever comes first.” The editor giggled.
“How many of those happy pills did you take, anyway?”
“Two or three. Maybe six. It really doesn’t matter, does it?”
“I suppose not,” Corey said wearily. “Is Mr. Eichorn still here?”
“Noooo,” Uhlander drawled. “He beat it back to Houston. It seems his daughter is feeling poorly. The Eich is afraid it might be” — he tapped his forehead — ” you know.”
The editor focused on something beyond Corey. He raised a hand in a cheery wave. “Come right on in. Don’t be shy. The more the merrier.”
Corey turned to see Doc Ingersoll coming through the open door to the editor’s office. He looked even more haggard than usual. His shirt was badly wilted, and the front of his suit was peppered with cigarette ash.
“Thank God somebody’s here who can talk sense,” Corey said. “You’re not popping goofballs, too, are you?”
“That’s not my vice,” Doc said. “But our friend Porter just might have the right idea.”
“What’s the story here. What’s all this suspend-publication shit.”
“That’s the new rules from Washington. Like everybody else, we are now operating as part of a media pool. Every population center has one newspaper printed and one radio and TV station on the air. You can bet that in Milwaukee the newspaper ain’t us.”
“A pool? What the fuck is the reason for that?”
“Attrition, for one thing. There aren’t enough people on their feet to keep everything going.”
“Jesus. That bad?”
“Worse. You remember that graph I drew up? The one that showed the brain-eater attacks growing geometrically? I think I was too optimistic.”
“Who’s giving the orders?”
“Harv Gehrman from over at the Journal was made the pool captain.”
“At least they put a real newspaperman in charge,” Corey said.
“Don’t get overconfident. A man from the Department of Commerce is on his way to take over.”
Corey groaned. “I should have known.”
Porter Uhlander spoke up, startling the two reporters, who had forgotten for the moment that he was there. “You boys might as well take the rest of the day off. Enjoy yourself. Nothing to do around here.”
“Thanks, chief,” Corey said.
“Don’t mention it.”
As they left the office together, Porter Uhlander smiled benignly at their departing backs.
“I hear there was some trouble up at Biotron,” Doc said.
“Where did you hear that?”
“UPI.”
“The wire services are still operating, then?”
“Tri-State shut down, but we’re still getting AP and UPI, along with Reuters and Tass.”
“Let’s go take a look at what they’ve got. On the way I’ll fill you in on the Biotron business.”
The wire-service reports were full of bad news and more bad news.
The number of victims struck by the brain eaters was mounting faster than the names could be recorded. Hospitals were running out of beds, due largely to people who had nothing more than simple colds or the flu or uncomplicated headaches. They had read enough about the brain-eaters symptoms to be justifiably scared out of their wits. Conversely, many who had been legitimately attacked by the parasites refused to accept the fact and screamed their way into madness and death, denying all the while that the brain eaters had them.
In view of the situation, the surgeon general had grudgingly admitted that there was indeed something to be worried about. He announced the setting up of a national task force of physicians to come up with a solution. Since there was so far no effective treatment for the victims, this news did little to calm the populace.
The story of what was now called the Biotron Massacre was reported merely as one more incident in a time of madness. Two security guards, an official of the Department of Health, and an unknown number of brain-eater victims, said to be Biotron employees, had died before state police and National Guardsmen were able to restore order.
The guard had been called out elsewhere, too, primarily in large cities where looting was on the rise. It seemed that for some the lure of an unguarded color television set could overpower any concern about having their brains chewed out. There was a growing clamor for martial law. So far the president was noncommittal.