Alan E. Nourse - The Fourth Horseman by Alan Edward Nourse Page A
Authors: Alan Edward Nourse
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epidemic—"Well, there's plague been reported down there, hasn't there?" A few cases of plaguelike illness have turned up, yes. It hasn't been precisely identified—"But people have been dying from it, haven't they?" It's true a few victims have succumbed in an isolated area, but I assure you it's completely under control— "Well, if that isn't an epidemic, how would you define the word epidemic, Doctor?" I wouldn't, fight now, ma'am, I'm trying to get down there to get some information about it— "Aren't you the Black Plague expert at the CDC, Doctor?" ***sigh***I'm just a working epidemiologist, ma'am, nothing more, and I've got a job to do if you'll just please let me get past, here—"Well, Doctor, I'm sure you're very modest, but we have some viewers who would like to know the facts about what's going on with this disease." So would I, ma'am. That's why I'm here, to dig out some facts, but so far I haven't made it out of the airport—"Well, let me tell you right now, Doctor, our viewers are going to recognize a coverup when they see one. ..."
Somewhere beyond all the lights and gabbling reporters he spotted Dr. Roger Salmon from the Fort Collins, Colorado, CDC unit, tall, white-haired, horn-rimmed glasses, moving toward him with a couple of burly airport guards on either side. Carlos grabbed Monique by the arm, ducked under the mikes and started plowing through the crowd toward Salmon as fast as his slight wiry frame could manage, sensing bitterly that he'd blown it with that reporter, but not knowing what else he could have done. Trouble was, he never could manage to hold on to his temper or watch his acid tongue; all he'd been taught about handling inquiries gently, instilling confidence, making positive and comforting statements that didn't sound evasive—all that always seemed to vanish every time he faced one of these hawks with a microphone trying to put words in his mouth. As he moved, with Monique in his wake, other microphones appeared, other bald, unanswerable questions came at him, but he just shook his head and plowed on. At last he reached Salmon, and the guards helped them break free of the pack.
"Sorry that happened," Roger said. "They promised us they'd bring the plane in at an alternate gate and announce it just at the last minute, but then they already had a plane there, and we were screwed."
"Never mind, just get us somewhere else." Carlos nodded gratefully to the airport guards. "Almost anyplace else will do."
"Well . . ." Roger Salmon hesitated. "We've been changing our plans by the minute. There's nothing to do here in Denver, nor Rampart Valley either—I've got a dozen people working down there. We need to go to Canon City, south of Colorado Springs. We've really got trouble down there." The man looked very tired and very nervous. "If you aren't completely pooped out, I've got an army chopper waiting for us. We can leave right now."
"You've got plague in this Canon City?" "Twenty new cases in the last twelve hours." Carlos pursed his lips. "Any rats?" he said. "Any fleas?" "I wouldn't know—but there's a guy down there who's been doing a lot of legwork for us—"
"That would be our forester friend, I think," Carlos said. "The first one I want to talk to when we get there."
17
In Bozeman, Montana, Harry Slencik walked out on the porch of his little town house and looked at the elderly man sipping beer there. "Hey, Ben," he said, "did you see that six p.m. newscast last night on Channel 5?"
Dr. Ben Chamberlain scratched his grizzled beard. "Don't watch TV much anymore, Harry. Same old crap, day after day. I just kinda eased out of it."
"Well, they said there's some kind of Black Plague going on down in Colorado."
"Oh, yeah?" Ben shrugged. "They always have a case or two every summer,"
"But twenty-eight cases in a week? Amy says we ought to be payin' attention."
The old doctor laughed. "Twenty-eight cases I don't believe, Harry. Far as I know, there haven't been twenty-eight plague
Somewhere beyond all the lights and gabbling reporters he spotted Dr. Roger Salmon from the Fort Collins, Colorado, CDC unit, tall, white-haired, horn-rimmed glasses, moving toward him with a couple of burly airport guards on either side. Carlos grabbed Monique by the arm, ducked under the mikes and started plowing through the crowd toward Salmon as fast as his slight wiry frame could manage, sensing bitterly that he'd blown it with that reporter, but not knowing what else he could have done. Trouble was, he never could manage to hold on to his temper or watch his acid tongue; all he'd been taught about handling inquiries gently, instilling confidence, making positive and comforting statements that didn't sound evasive—all that always seemed to vanish every time he faced one of these hawks with a microphone trying to put words in his mouth. As he moved, with Monique in his wake, other microphones appeared, other bald, unanswerable questions came at him, but he just shook his head and plowed on. At last he reached Salmon, and the guards helped them break free of the pack.
"Sorry that happened," Roger said. "They promised us they'd bring the plane in at an alternate gate and announce it just at the last minute, but then they already had a plane there, and we were screwed."
"Never mind, just get us somewhere else." Carlos nodded gratefully to the airport guards. "Almost anyplace else will do."
"Well . . ." Roger Salmon hesitated. "We've been changing our plans by the minute. There's nothing to do here in Denver, nor Rampart Valley either—I've got a dozen people working down there. We need to go to Canon City, south of Colorado Springs. We've really got trouble down there." The man looked very tired and very nervous. "If you aren't completely pooped out, I've got an army chopper waiting for us. We can leave right now."
"You've got plague in this Canon City?" "Twenty new cases in the last twelve hours." Carlos pursed his lips. "Any rats?" he said. "Any fleas?" "I wouldn't know—but there's a guy down there who's been doing a lot of legwork for us—"
"That would be our forester friend, I think," Carlos said. "The first one I want to talk to when we get there."
17
In Bozeman, Montana, Harry Slencik walked out on the porch of his little town house and looked at the elderly man sipping beer there. "Hey, Ben," he said, "did you see that six p.m. newscast last night on Channel 5?"
Dr. Ben Chamberlain scratched his grizzled beard. "Don't watch TV much anymore, Harry. Same old crap, day after day. I just kinda eased out of it."
"Well, they said there's some kind of Black Plague going on down in Colorado."
"Oh, yeah?" Ben shrugged. "They always have a case or two every summer,"
"But twenty-eight cases in a week? Amy says we ought to be payin' attention."
The old doctor laughed. "Twenty-eight cases I don't believe, Harry. Far as I know, there haven't been twenty-eight plague
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