Pattern for Panic (3 page)

When the girl left, Buff said dryly, “I'll bet she sells lots of cigarettes,” and Monique put in, “Shell, did you have to give her ten pesos?"

“Oh, that,” I said. “What's money? Eighty cents. Share the wealth. Poor hard-working girl—"

They ha-ha'd together. I let them ha-ha while I told them I was only kidding, I'd thought it was one peso. We batted the conversation around for a while, then ordered dinner. I had breast of pheasant. After some of the finest food in Mexico the conversation, which had entered a lull, spurted up again. The doctor held forth for a while about his work.

After his wife's death from polio two years ago, Dr. Buffington had begun compiling all available statistics on cases of polio, and deaths from the disease, among both vaccinated and unvaccinated victims.

He said, “I have since carefully investigated the Cutter incident, the epidemics in Massachusetts, Des Moines, Rhode Island and elsewhere, and the overall record, from 1955 to the present. It has become obvious to me that the Salk vaccine in many cases, rather than protecting the recipients against polio, caused them to contract polio."

I said, “Huh?"

He smiled slightly. “The usual reaction. It is my conclusion, however. The facts show clearly that a large percentage of those who have contracted polio—usually of the paralytic type—had received three or more Salk shots; some have died. The figures are impressive. Whether the vaccine caused the disease in those victims, or merely failed to give any protection whatsoever, might be argued by some; but if the rate of occurrence in those vaccinated, even three and four or more times, is a coincidence, it is an ugly coincidence. Moreover, the incidence of polio is rapidly increasing—particularly the paralytic type."

He went on to state facts and figures and medical theory, most of it over the rocks in my head, then explained that his own approach to combating the disease had been on a chemical basis. He was attempting to find a nontoxic chemical combination which, when introduced into the weakened body, would accelerate the body's own defense mechanisms temporarily, invigorating them sufficiently that they could throw off the disease in the same manner as a normally healthy body would.

His voice rose a little as he went on, “As my work progressed, it became evident that if such an approach proved efficacious in the treatment of poliomyelitis, there was no reason why it should not be equally effective against
other
diseases. The prospect is immensely exciting."

I let that sink in. “You mean—if it worked, that is—you could eliminate
all
disease?"

He smiled. “Not quite that exciting, Shell. But perhaps most cases of disease caused by viruses or bacterial invasion.” He paused. “Basically my approach is an attempt to strengthen—temporarily—the body's own natural defenses, chemically, rather than through the introduction of disease into the healthy body, or polluting a clean bloodstream."

“Well, you're the doctor, Doctor. But that makes sense even to an imbecile like me."

He grinned. I asked him, “How are you doing?"

“I'm close. Very close. I've seen amazing recoveries among animals. Another year or two, perhaps ... Of course, there have been many disheartening failures."

As he went on, I glanced around and spotted a big, good-looking Mexican ogling our table. With Buff and Monique here the table was worth ogling, and it occurred to me that maybe it was a little goofy for the Doc and me to be sitting with these two delightful dolls and talking about dead experimental apes. The peculiar way they'd died interested me, though.

A little over two months back, Dr. Buffington had shot some new gook into experimental chimpanzees. Their movements became jerky, disoriented; they blundered around their cages, banging into the bars, then fell, twitched a bit, and died. He'd followed up on that particular formula and found out what was wrong. I didn't get it all, but he gave me a lot of technical stuff about dendrites, and synapses becoming inoperable, and the nervous system rotting away. What it boiled down to, as far as I was concerned, was that the synapse is like a bridge the nerve impulse has to cross, and that the bridges were out; consequently no messages or orders could be transmitted between the brain and any affected part of the body. The Doc had some very jerky apes there for a while.

“Screwy,” I said. “This nerve gook knocked off the chimps, huh?"

“Well, they actually died of suffocation—couldn't breathe. They'd have died anyway from any of a number of other complications.” He paused. “You might say that the injection overstimulated the entire nervous system, burned it out, in effect—with the weakest or most susceptible links in the nerve chains succumbing first. In layman's language, a little like sending too much current through a wire."

I thought about a wire getting red hot and then melting; and millions of nerves overstimulated, writhing, dying. “Nasty stuff to have lying around."

He grinned wryly. “You may be sure none is. I destroyed even my notes on that particular experiment, once it was concluded. If I hadn't, it would have been much like leaving poison unmarked."

“Or poison gas. The stuff sounds something like the nerve gases you hear about. As possible weapons in war, I mean."

“Yes, somewhat.” He nodded. “But this was more deadly than anything I've heard of. I was using incredibly minute quantities.” He frowned. “What's in your mind occurred to me, of course. I learned enough about it to guess that it would make an unbelievably horrible weapon, relatively simple to produce. But I destroyed everything."

Buff broke in. “Not till he got a whiff of the stuff, though. Nearly killed him."

The doctor shrugged. “I was careless. Didn't realize how volatile the liquid was, how quickly it became gas at normal temperatures, and I got a—a whiff of it. The barest trace, fortunately, but I had a bad time of it for a few hours. Cold skin, cold sweat, I felt like a walking corpse. Fast heartbeat and shortness of breath, weakness, a terrible anxiety. And a panicky feeling out of all proportion to the real danger, even though I could do nothing to counteract the effects. That was really the worst part, the fear of ... well, not of anything specific. Just an all-pervading fear."

I shook my head. “Nasty stuff, indeed, Doctor. And you agree it would make a very nasty weapon. Lord knows what we'll have in the next war, besides the bombs. Or, more likely, instead of the bombs."

After a minute's silence he said, “I've thought a good deal about that. Naturally some of my colleagues knew about my experiments. Word got around, apparently, and I was twice approached by men from the Army and asked about psychological and lethal effects of the liquid. One man, a colonel, came all the way from Fort Detrick, Maryland—the U.S. Army Chemical Corps installation there, where so-called nerve-gas and other experiments have been conducted—and suggested that I return to Fort Detrick with him.” He sighed. “I told both men I had destroyed everything, that the effects were accidental and I could not reproduce my experiments."

“You destroyed your notes, Doc, but they must still be in your brain. It would drive me nuts carrying that around."

He nodded and said soberly, “That's true, Shell, but I told them what I tell you now. My life is devoted to saving lives. I refuse to let my brain father such a monster."

He had spoken in such somber tones that it was almost spooky, and I felt fine hairs wiggle at the back of my neck. “Hope nobody ever changes your mind, Doc,” I said.

Buff drummed on the table with red fingernails. “That's enough of your gruesome old conversations. Absolutely, bloody well enough. If this continues one second more I'll pick me up a Latin lover. Have you noticed how many good-looking men there are here? And women?"

“Ah,” I said.

“He has.” Monique pinched me again.

“Sure,” I said, “but you two tomatoes—"

“Don't call me one of your tomatoes,” Buff said.

“Ladies stand out, even in Mexico.” It was true enough, but my point was that nowhere else, not even in Hollywood or Las Vegas, had I seen so many striking women—and not a flat chest among them. I didn't quite know how to explain this to the girls, however.

I was glancing idly around while the conversation was cooking and I noticed an example of one of the “good-looking guys” Buff had mentioned. It was the same one I'd seen before, a regular Latin slicker with black wavy hair and a thick black mustache. He was barrel-chested and a little rough-looking. Sort of a Latin Hemingway type. He'd been gone for a while, but he was back again, and still ogling. He sat alone now at the next table and was staring at Buff, rather insolently, I thought.

A good many Mexican men are, while not insolent, merely more open and obvious in their admiration when they find something to admire than guys from, say, California or New York, Mexicans being quite sensible about such things. But this guy was insolent; it was the way he looked and where he looked, and the way be was wiggling his eyes and lips, and maybe ears, and no telling what all.

I didn't like it. I tried to ignore the guy. He wasn't to be ignored.

“Seems to like you,” I said.

“Or something,” Buff said. “I wish he'd go away."

He didn't. He kept ogling for a minute, then got up and came to our table. He leaned over Buff.

“Hi, baby,” he said thickly. “I'll buy you a drink, baby.” He sounded drunk, but his English was perfect.

Buff turned her head away from him. “No, thank you,” she said softly.

“Let's have fun,” he said. “Lots of fun. You and—"

“Beat it,” I said. “Vanish. Take a walk."

He turned slowly toward me. “You want to know what you can do to yourself? I'll tell you."

I could feel the slow flush, the blood creeping up my neck, the pulse-thud in my throat and wrists. I bit my lip and kept the heat down inside me; I sure as hell didn't want a big scene here in the Monte Cassino. Besides, I don't usually go around popping people unless it's absolutely necessary. This guy was about my height and husky enough, but unless he'd been stuffed with as much lethal training as I'd got in the Marines and as a detective, he simply wasn't in my class. That's no particular credit to me, but I didn't want to mess with the guy, even though I wasn't worried about the beef.

It seemed more than a bit peculiar for a guy to barge up to a table full of strangers and start throwing his weight around, but the thought barely brushed my mind. I took a long breath and let it out just as he started to tell me what I could do to myself.

“My slimy friend,” I said quietly, “get yourself the hell away from here. Go sit down and have a drink. Somewhere else."

He looked at me and said something in Spanish, then turned back to Buff. He put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing slightly while he spoke to her.

I didn't get what he said to Buff. My Spanish is less than fair, but I know some of the gutter language, and I knew I was going to flip clear up in the air in another minute. I stood up and looked around, thinking maybe a team of waiters would be converging on us, but nobody seemed to have noticed anything out of the ordinary. It had all been quiet. So far.

There is an exposed nerve beneath the armpit. Squeeze it with a little pressure from your fingers and it hurts like the slice of a hot knife. I grabbed the slicker around the biceps and dug four fingers into that nerve with plenty of pressure, and he jumped half an inch, squeaking. I turned him around and made him look at me. “Get this straight,” I said. “Now, and fast. Stop annoying the lady; beat it, or I'll shred you all over the Monte Cassino."

I let go of his arm and he started rubbing it, looking at my face, his lips twisted. He started to walk away, then paused as if waiting for me. I went over to him. “You get it?” I asked. “You understand?
Comprende?
"

“I'll see you outside."

“You'll see me nowhere. Don't be a chump."

He said something in Spanish that I didn't understand, then added, “Outside.” He pointed toward the door and went out through it. I walked back to the table and sat down.

“Well,” Monique said, “I thought for a minute we'd lost you. He leave?"

“I suppose.” I wondered if that fool was actually waiting outside. The hell with him.

“Thanks, Shell,” Buff said.

“For nothing."

“Shell,” Monique asked, “why was he pointing to the door?"

I looked at her. I didn't say anything. She let it ride.

The conversation slowly started again, but it had lost much of its life. I began to calm down, and then the fool came back inside, went over to the cigarette girl and talked to her for a few seconds, then gave her something. She nodded and looked toward our table, glanced at her watch. He left. The cigarette girl kept looking at her watch every minute or so.

The conversation staggered along for a few minutes, then the cigarette girl walked to our table. She had a note in her hand.

She stopped by me and said, “The man you were talking to asked me to give this note to the blonde lady."

I took the folded paper, thanked her, and she went away. I looked at the note. It was to Buff, and it was filth. She was to meet him outside; he had to talk with her, the note said. It said that and a lot more.

I tore the note into pieces, burned the pieces in the ashtray, and stood up. “I'll be back in a couple of minutes,” I said. They all looked at me, but nobody answered. I went over to the door and out onto Geneva Street, where the guy was supposed to be waiting.

The funny thing was, I thought I
would
be back in a couple of minutes.

Rain fell steadily, and it was nearly dark. But I could see him leaning against the side of the building. He straightened up when he saw me, grinning, hardly seeming surprised to see me instead of Buff. I didn't stop to think about it.

I decided not to clip him until I talked to him; that was a mistake. I stepped toward him and he didn't hesitate a second, just moved in close, his left fist driving at me in a straight, professional jab.