The Sudden Star (3 page)

"Not with the planes. You know how they're guarded. That sort of thing's suicide. Not that I wouldn't mind getting my hands on some of that stuff." Mahoney licked his thick lips, as if tasting the flown-in wines, cheeses, and delicacies only the very rich could afford.

"People are desperate," Simon muttered. "They've cut the rations for the unemployed, they only get twelve hundred calories a day now. I'm afraid there might even be a raid on a medical center one of these days. Maybe not here, but at one of the ones the Service uses. Most people can't get so much as an aspirin there."

"Frankly," Mahoney said, lowering his voice, "I think they ought to stop drafting doctors altogether and make everybody pay. Besides, everybody knows having free clinics is just a front for the army, so they can get their own care without having to pay much for it."

"That's dangerous talk, Cliff."

"Anyway, we've already started to get rid of genetically inherited defects with the list. Seems to me we could do with less of the street people. If they can't pay, they shouldn't get treatment."

Something jarred Simon's thoughts. "Strange," he murmured, "that Mura's Syndrome's on the list, when it has nothing to do with genetic flaws."

Mahoney leaned back, twisting his fat fingers around his fork. "Maybe somebody knows something we don't, and maybe you'd better just not worry about it." Cliff grinned suddenly. "Hey, there's Marvin." He stood up. "Hey, Steinman, over here!" He waved his arms, and the fat bulk that was Marvin Steinman proceeded toward Simon's table.

Steinman sat down across from Simon. He made soft slurping sounds as he started on his soup. "Linda's pregnant again," Mahoney offered. "Those damn Filipino refugees think they can breed as much as they want."

"Calm down, Cliff," Steinman said in his whispery voice. "Ramon Pura reenlisted in the medical service. They're not so bad."

"He's crazy."

"Maybe not," Steinman replied. "He'll have friends in the army."

"Jeanne tells me you'll be busy next Tuesday," Simon said. Mahoney raised a heavy eyebrow disapprovingly.

"Well, I trust you and Cliff won't talk. McKee and I are going to be giving some shots to a lot of the city officials. But we've got to keep it quiet. There were rumors about some cases of cholera in Brooklyn. And a couple of friends of mine in the Service clinics have seen a few polio cases over the last few months."

"That's ridiculous," Mahoney said. "The clinics can give anyone who wants one a vaccination or booster."

"Come on, Cliff," Simon said. "How long do you think anyone will stand on those lines, waiting for a shot, if they've already been on the food lines?"

"I wouldn't know," Mahoney replied. "I don't go into the streets, and it's been years since I was in the Service." He smiled slightly. Simon felt a flash of anger, then fear. Perhaps Mahoney knew about his ventures. Then he relaxed. Cliff couldn't know; he was only jibing at Simon's past. "They ought to quit treating anyone who can't pay," Mahoney went on.

"Quite right," Steinman said. "Besides, who knows what genetic faults many of them might be carrying? We can't screen them, and not everything will turn up as a disease, so many traits are recessive. We can't afford to have the species as a whole weakened by these genetic traits."

Simon thought of Jeanne. He stared at Steinman's spectacles. "I wonder what keeps myopia off the list," he said quietly.

Mahoney laughed. "The ophthalmologists and oculists, of course. Can you imagine what would happen to the dentists if soft teeth or pyorrhea got put on it?" He chuckled and rose to his feet. "I've got to head back to my office. See you." Mahoney picked up his tray and left. Steinman turned back to Simon and grinned.

"Jeanne was a bit upset when she got home last night," he said. "Really, Simon, if you're going to see her, don't get her so annoyed that she takes it out on me."

Simon felt his muscles tighten. Don't you know she has Mura's Syndrome? he wanted to shout. But Marvin must know. It was probably why he didn't care what his wife did. He wondered if Steinman had a hold on him, if the fat man knew anything about his activities, about his illegal patients. Simon wished he had never started seeing Jeanne. He had lost control of her; he could not even prove she was a murderer, because he had helped destroy the evidence. He watched Marvin Steinman's spectacled, gray eyes and could read nothing in them.

"She just doesn't seem happy with your relationship," Steinman was saying. "She hasn't been well. You know that, of course."

Simon rose. "I understand," he replied, hating the fat man's complacency, disgusted with someone who would pander for his wife, yet realizing that he too was catering to Jeanne's needs in a deadlier fashion. "I'd better get back to work."

Steinman smiled, and let him go.

Late that afternoon, Simon went over to the heavily guarded bank where he kept his safety-deposit box. He picked up some of the money Sam Karenga had left, checked the small number of medical supplies he kept there, and replaced the bottle of Dilantin that Karenga had taken.

When he left the bank, the spring breezes had grown cooler. The bridge linking the bank's building with the office complex next door swayed as he crossed; his feet clattered against the planks. He clutched the ropes at his sides and hurried as much as he could. Two young men in dark suits scampered easily over the bridge next to him. It was easy to tell, when you were on the bridges, who had grown up rich; such people moved over the bridges easily, while Simon crept along, trying not to look down. He would never get used to it.

The office building and the medical center, fortunately, were connected by an enclosed bridge with glass windows. Simon hurried through it and noticed in passing that one of the windows was broken. The wind whistled through it. He crossed the roof of the center and stood, holding his bag, waiting for the helicopter that would take him home.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned to face Yola Kozlowski. "You're going home late."

She smiled. "When a patient's in the middle of handling an emotional crisis, I can't just leave." She glanced down at his hands. "You're taking your bag home."

"Sometimes a patient calls after hours. General practitioners get almost as many off-duty calls as obstetricians."

"It's nice of you to be so helpful to them."

"Well, you specialists can make your money on duty. We have to make it when we can."

She lowered her eyelids. He said, "How about helping me use up some rations tonight? I've got a couple of steaks, if you're not choosy about the cut. At least they're meat. I pick up more rations here tomorrow, so I don't need to keep them." He stopped. He had extended the invitation impulsively while staring at Yola Kozlowski's slim hips.

She blushed. "Sure."

"All right," he said. Yola stared at the rooftop under her feet, and then looked around nervously. Simon felt tired. He looked at Yola and felt unexcited by the pretty, awkward young woman. She stood with her shoulders hunched forward and her stomach thrust out; he imagined that she would be awkward in bed. It was still better than an evening with Jeanne Steinman.

He heard the sound of the approaching helicopter and looked up. "Well, it's finally here," Yola said, looking relieved. He took her arm and they ran quickly toward the landing vehicle.

Yola had decided to prepare the steaks herself. As she broiled them in Simon's small oven, she talked of her family in Chicago, her shyness dissipated by the gin Simon had served. He lay on his bed, head propped up by a pillow, listening with slight interest and trying to appear attentive while ignoring the loud voices of those passing in the hallway.

Yola Kozlowski was the daughter of a member of Chicago's militia, who had trained in aeronautics only to see his dreams smashed with the demise of the space program. Her mother had become wealthy managing a successful beauty salon, located at the top of one of Chicago's tall buildings. "We even had a toilet that you could close off from the other rooms. At least we didn't have to avert our eyes every time someone took a piss, or share a bathroom with everyone on the whole floor." She giggled and turned around, her face flushed. She looked unsteady.

"Nice to be rich," Simon muttered.

"I don't know," Yola said, looking solemn. "I had a rough time when I was doing my two years of service, because I'd been so sheltered, and yet I felt as though I should have reenlisted anyway. So I rationalized by saying I wouldn't have had much of a chance to use my psychiatric training there. Oh, well, even poor people are better off in cities than in the country, I guess. I've heard it's pretty grim out there."

Simon sipped his gin. "I've heard that too, but I don't know if I believe it. It's easy to get into New York, but you can't get out without a pass. Maybe they're hiding something."

"I don't know. At least you can get ahead in a city."

"I'm sure everyone on the food lines thinks so." Simon gestured toward the oven. "They're probably done." Yola removed the steaks, put them on two small plates, and handed one to Simon. She remained on her seat near the oven.

"You know, Simon," she said, motioning with her glass of gin, "I've thought of setting up a practice among the poor, living with them, treating them, even if it is practically hopeless."

He chuckled. "You wouldn't live an hour. My parents had six kids. I'm the only one still alive. They shot my father during a food riot."

Yola grew pale. "How did you get into med school?"

"I was lucky, I got through high school just before the city closed the public schools. And I had an uncle in the militia, who put the screws to a couple of men who owed him a favor. So I got a scholarship to college and med school."

"He must have been close to you. I guess it proves you can get ahead if people care about you and love you."

Simon sighed, feeling he would have to explain the obvious. "You're wrong, Yola. He looked around at the family and decided to give his help to someone who had the brains to get ahead. What's the point of helping somebody who'll never get ahead and be able to pay you back? He helped me, I gave some money to my cousin, so she could get into food distribution, we both paid my uncle back, and all of us forgot about the rest."

"The rest of who?"

"The family."

Yola was quiet. Simon looked at her and thought of a redheaded adolescent at a rooftop party. He remembered how he and Toby Montalvo had stood in a street staring upward, speculating about the lives of the people who flew among buildings as if they were gods. He had always supposed they were happy people.

"Have another drink, Yola." She held out her glass.

Yola Kozlowski had lost her shyness after her third drink, and she was not awkward in bed, although Simon sensed her skill was the product of an eagerness to please rather than experience. She continued to caress him after they had finished, until he impatiently brushed her hands away and turned on his side, facing her. She looked at him with her sad eyes, opened her mouth as if she was going to speak, closed it again, then turned over with her back to him.

Simon lay there silently. He began to doze, feeling as though he were being pulled under the surface of water and then left to float, drifting near the surface, unable to sink and unable to rise. He remained dimly conscious of the woman at his side. Something about her—he could not be sure what it was—made him feel isolated and alone as he drifted. His arms twitched. Something heavy settled on his chest, but instead of pushing him under, into unconsciousness, it pushed him up, up—he was awake.

A sound buzzed in his ear. Someone was calling him. He pushed the visual black-out button on his phone and picked up the receiver.

"Simon, it's me." It was Jeanne's voice. He turned on the small screen and saw her pug-nosed face peering at him. "Marvin will be away on Sunday. You may come over here then." She sounded calm enough. He looked over at Yola, who still slept.

"I can't," he said recklessly. "I don't want to meet you there. I don't want to meet you here."

"When, then?"

"I don't know." He paused, suddenly apprehensive, trying to think of an excuse. "I've been busy lately. I haven't slept well. I need to rest up."

"Who is there with you?" Jeanne lifted her head, pointing her chin at him.

He felt a movement next to him and looked over his shoulder. Yola was awake, staring at the screen. Her eyes widened a bit.

"I'll talk to you some other time, Jeanne," he said at last. Jeanne's image watched him unblinkingly, silently. Then she shrugged.

"Very well," she said, and the screen went blank.

Simon hung up, worried. Jeanne was rarely calm. He turned over on his back.

Yola was still watching him. "Jeanne Steinman?" the young doctor said. Her green eyes narrowed.

"You know her?"

"I know of her." The words sounded flat. "I saw her at a party just after I arrived. She didn't leave with her husband." She lay down again, her back to him.

He was tired. He reached over to grab the bottle of gin at the side of the bed, and swallowed two mouthfuls. He could not tell whether Yola was upset or simply disappointed. But he did not care what she thought. He reached toward her and grabbed her arm, digging his fingers into the flesh. She pulled her arm away and curled up tightly, pulling her knees to her chest.