Ole Doc Methuselah (10 page)

Behind
him, through the partly closed door, Arlington's voice went on, issuing orders,
trying to head off the escaped slaves, trying to stir the fear-paralyzed city
into action.

“They
sent a doc,” Arlington was telling someone, a government officer, “but he's
just a kid. Doesn't look more than twenty and he's just as baffled as we are.
So don't count on it. . . . Well, all we know about them Soldiers, after all,
is their reputation. I never seen one before, did you? . . . Hell, that's what
you keep saying, but without slaves, you might as well quit the planet. Who'd
work timber? . . .”

Ole
Doc looked down the empty corridors. He didn't know why he should save the
planet. He had prejudices against slavery and the people who employed it.
Somehow, away back in nineteen forty-six, when he graduated from Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, Maryland, people had gotten the idea that human beings should be free and that man, after
all, was a pretty noble creature intended for very high destinies. Some of that
had been forgotten as the ages marched on but Ole Doc had never failed to
remember.

He
hitched up his blasters and went out to meet the slaves.

They
were at the eighteenth barrier of the city, in a tunnel of shallow roof and
frozen floor and they were confronting a captain of guards almost hysterical
with the necessity of keeping them back.

“Son,”
said Ole Doc, peering down the long corridor at the first ranks of the slaves,
“you better put that machine blaster away before somebody gets hurt. I think
those people have stopped being afraid.”

The
captain had not been aware of company. His two men were just as frightened as
himself and the three jumped about to face Ole Doc. In the darkness the buttons
of the cloak were as luminescent as panther eyes.

“What
language do they speak?” said Ole Doc.

“God
knows!” said the captain, “but they understand
lingua
spacia.
Who are you?”

“Just
a medic that drifted in,” said Ole Doc. “I hear they have a leader they call a
cithw.
Do you suppose you could get him to meet me halfway up that
passageway?”

“Are
you crazy?”

“I
have occasionally suspected it,” said Ole Doc. “Sing out.”

A
short parley at respectful distance ensued and the uneasy mass at the other end
of the corridor stepped back, leaving a tall, ancient being to the fore.

Ole
Doc gave a nod to the captain and dropped over the barrier. The cold wind
stirred his cloak and the way was dark under the failing power supply of the
city. He stopped halfway.

The
ancient one came tremblingly forward, not afraid, only aged. Ole Doc had not
known what strange form of being to expect and he was somewhat startled by the
ordinariness of the creature. Two eyes, two arms, two legs. Why, except for his
deep gray color and the obvious fact that he was not of flesh, he might well
have been any human patriarch.

He
wore white bands about his wrists and forehead and a heavy apron on which was
painted a scarlet compass and a star. Wisdom and dignity shone in his eyes. Was
this a slave?

In
lingua spacia, Ole Doc saluted him.

“There
is trouble,” said Ole Doc. “I am your friend.” There are but four hundred and
eighty-nine words in lingua spacia but they would serve here.

The
old creature paused and saluted Ole Doc. “There are no friends to the Kufra on
Mizar's Dorab.”

“I
am not of Dorab-Mizar. I belong to no world. I salute you as a
cithw
for
this I also may be called. You are in trouble.”

“In
grievous trouble, wise one. My people are hungry. They are a free people, wise
one. They have homes and sons and lands where light shines.”

“What
do your people eat,
cithw?
”

“Kufra,
wise one. That is why we are called the Kufra people.”

“And
what is this kufra,
cithw?
”

The
ancient one paused and thought and shook his head at last. “It is kufra, wise
one. There is none here.”

“How
often do you eat this,
cithw?
”

“Our
festivals come each second year and it is then we feast upon the sacred food.”

“What
is meant by year, wise one?”

“A
year, wise one. I cannot tell more. We are not of the galactic empire. We know
little of the human save what we have learned here. They call our home Sirius
Sixty-eight but we call it Paradise, wise one. We long to return. These frozen
snows and dead faces are not for us.”

“I
must know more,
cithw.
Is there sickness amongst your people?”

“There
is not, wise one. There has never been what you call sickness and we saw it
only here for the first time. Wise one, if you are a man of magic among these
peoples, free us from this living death. Free us and we shall worship you as a
god, building bright temples to your name as a deliverer of our people. Free
us, wise one, if you have the power.”

Ole
Doc felt a choke of emotion, so earnest were these words, so real the agony in
this being's soul.

“Return
to your places here and I shall do everything I can to free you,” said Ole
Doc.

The
old one nodded and turned back. Shortly, after a conversation with other
leaders, the slaves left the corridor. Ole Doc met the captain.

“They
are going back to quarters,” said Ole Doc. “I must do what I can for them and
for you.”

“Say,
who the hell are you anyway?” asked
the captain.

“A
Soldier of Light,” said Ole Doc.

The
captain and the men stood speechless and watched the golden cloak flow out of
sight beyond a turn.

 

Hippocrates
met Ole Doc, as ordered by communicator, outside the government house, carrying
some fifteen hundred pounds of equipment under one arm. Hippocrates was lawful
in everything but obeying Newton's law of gravity.

“‘When
plague strikes an area it is usual to issue yellow tickets to all transport and
then proceed on certain well-defined lines . . .”' Automatically he was
quoting a manual, meanwhile looking about him at the chill, deserted squares of
the subsurface city.

Ole
Doc saw with satisfaction that the little fellow was dressed in a cast-off
insulator, which though much too large was fine protection against anything
except blasters.

Shortly,
on the broad steps of the castle, the instruments were laid out in orderly
shining rows, a small table was set up, a number of meters were lined to one
side and a recorder was in place by the table.

Hippocrates
went off in a rush and came back carrying a stack of bodies which he dumped
with a thud on the steps. He kicked the wandering arms and legs into line and
sniffed distastefully at the mound, some of which had been there too long.

Ole
Doc went methodically to work. He took up a lancet and jutted it at the corpse
of a young girl which was promptly banged down on the table. Ole Doc, hampered
by his gloves, went quickly to work while Hippocrates handed him glittering
blades and probes.

In
an upper window of the government house the big face of one George Jasper
Arlington came into view. His eyes popped as he stared at the scene on the
steps and then, ill, he slammed down the blind.

At
first a small, timid knot of people had come forward but it had not taken the
officious wave of Hippocrates to send them scurrying.

The
abattoir
then
fascinated nothing but the professional curiosity of Ole Doc.

“Would
have died from
Graves' disease
anyway,”
said Ole Doc looking at the table and then at the full buckets. “But that
couldn't be the plague. Next!”

The
lancet glittered under the flashing arc and with a neat perfection which could
separate cell from cell, nerve from tissue, nay, the very elements from one
another, Ole Doc continued on his intent way.

“Next!”

“Next!”

“Next!”

And
then, “Hippocrates, look at these slides for me.”

There
was one from each and the little creature bent a microscope over them and
counted in a shrill singsong.

“Right,”
said Ole Doc. “Anemia. Anemia bad enough to kill. Now what disease would cause
that?”

Phonograph-recordwise,
Hippocrates began to intone the sixty-nine thousand seven hundred and four
known diseases but Ole Doc was not listening. He was looking at the remains of
the girl who would have died from Graves' disease anyway and then at the window
of George Jasper Arlington's office.

“Next,”
said Ole Doc hopelessly.

It
was a scrawny woman who had obviously suffered for some time from malnutrition.
And Ole Doc, with something like pity, began his work once more.

The
snick of blade and the drip from the table were all the sounds in the chilly
street. And then a sharp exclamation from Ole Doc.

He
seized the liver and held it closer to the light and then, with a barked
command at Hippocrates, raced up the steps and kicked open the door of George
Jasper Arlington's office.

The
big man stared in alarm and then stumbled away from the grisly thing in Ole
Doc's hand.

“You've
got to return the slaves to Sirius Sixty-eight!” said Ole Doc.

“Return
them? Get out of here with that thing. Why should I spend a fortune doing that?
Get out!”

“You'll
spend it because I tell you to,” said Ole Doc.

“If
you mean they've caused the plague and will continue it, I'll have them shot
but that's all.”

“Oh
no you won't,” said Ole Doc. “And if you see fit to disobey me and shoot them,
at least wait until I have departed. If you kill them, you'll leave the poison
here forever.”

“Poison!”

“There
is an old tale of a man who poisoned his daughter gradually until she was
immune and then sent her to kill his rival's son. I am afraid you are up
against that. You'll die—everyone on this planet and you included will die if
you shoot those slaves. And you will die if you keep them.”

“Go
to hell!” said George Arlington.

Ole
Doc looked at the thing he carried and smiled wryly through his helmet face.
“Then you don't leave me much chance.”

“Chance
for what?”

“To
save you. For unless you do this thing, I have no recourse.”

From
a pocket in the hem of his golden cloak he drew a sheaf of yellow papers.
Dropping his burden on the desk he seized a pen and wrote:

George
Jasper Arlington
Never

“What
is that?”

“A
personal yellow ticket. I go now to give them to all your spaceships, all your
captains, all your towns and villages. No one will come to you, ever. No one
can go from here, ever. There will be no export, no import. I abandon you and
all space abandons you. I condemn you to the death you sought to give your slaves.
I have spoken.”

And
he threw the yellow paper on the desk before Arlington and turned to leave.

“Wait.
Holy hell, doctor. Have you got that power? Look. Listen to reason. Listen,
Doctor. You can't do this. I haven't tried to buck you. I am trying to cooperate.
I'll . . . Wait! What is wrong? What
is
the disease, the poison?”

“This,”
said Ole Doc, “is the remains of a malignant and commonly fatal tumor of this particular species of
colloid
. It is a cancer, Arlington. And
now I am going about my business since you will not attend to yours.”

“Cancer!
But that's not catching! I know that's not catching.”

“Look
at it,” said Ole Doc.

Arlington
looked away. “What did you say I was to do?”

“Take
all available transport and return the Kufra people to Sirius Sixty-eight. Every one of them. Only then can you live. I
will have to treat your crews and make other arrangements before departure. But
I will only do this if you promise that no single slave will be shot or mauled.
That is vital, understand?”

“Good
God, what have I done to deserve this? It will cost me half my fortune. I will
have no laborers. Isn't there—”

“There
is not,” said Ole Doc. “I suggest you employ the best engineers in the Galaxy
to provide machinery for your timber work. When you have done that I will send
you a formula so that human beings can stand the cold for a short time without
injury. I will do this. But there is your communicator.”

George
Jasper Arlington began to look hopeful. But it was fear which made him give the
orders, fear and the thing in Ole Doc's hand.