He pulled her away from the elevator door that suddenly slid open. "You
were going to that death trap upstairs," he said.
"Where else can I go?"
"With me," he said. "I think I can help you."
"How? Have you found a cure for the virus?"
"I think so. At least it's a better possibility than the things they're
using up there." His voice was urgent. "And to think I might never
have seen it if you hadn't put me on the track."
"Are you sure you're right?"
"Not absolutely, but the facts fit. The theory's good."
"Then I'm going to the clinic. I can't risk infecting you. I'm a carrier
now. I can kill you, and you're too important to die."
"You don't know how wrong you are," Kramer said.
"Let go of me!"
"No--you're coming back!"
She twisted in his grasp. "Let me go!" she sobbed and broke into a fit
of coughing worse than before.
"What I was trying to say," Dr. Kramer said into the silence that
followed, "is that if you have Thurston's Disease, you've been a carrier
for at least two weeks. If I am going to get it, your going away can't
help. And if I'm not, I'm not."
"Do you come willingly or shall I knock you unconscious and drag you
back?" Kramer asked.
She looked at his face. It was grimmer than she had ever seen it before.
Numbly she let him lead her back to the laboratory.
* * * * *
"But, Walter--I can't. That's sixty in the past ten hours!" she
protested.
"Take it," he said grimly, "then take another. And inhale. Deeply."
"But they make me dizzy."
"Better dizzy than dead. And, by the way--how's your chest?"
"Better. There's no pain now. But the cough is worse."
"It should be."
"Why?"
"You've never smoked enough to get a cigarette cough," he said.
She shook her head dizzily. "You're so right," she said.
"And that's what nearly killed you," he finished triumphantly.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm certain. Naturally, I can't prove it--yet. But that's just a matter
of time. Your response just about clinches it. Take a look at the
records. Who gets this disease? Youngsters--with nearly one hundred per
cent morbidity and one hundred per cent mortality. Adults--less than
fifty per cent morbidity--and again one hundred per cent mortality. What
makes the other fifty per cent immune? Your crack about leather lungs
started me thinking--so I fed the data cards into the computer and keyed
them for smoking versus incidence. And I found that not one heavy smoker
had died of Thurston's Disease. Light smokers and nonsmokers--plenty of
them--but not one single nicotine addict. And there were over ten
thousand randomized cards in that spot check. And there's the exact
reverse of that classic experiment the lung cancer boys used to sell
their case. Among certain religious groups which prohibit smoking there
was nearly one hundred per cent mortality of all ages!
"And so I thought since the disease was just starting in you, perhaps I
could stop it if I loaded you with tobacco smoke. And it works!"
"You're not certain yet," Mary said. "I might not have had the
disease."
"You had the symptoms. And there's virus in your sputum."
"Yes, but--"
"But, nothing! I've passed the word--and the boys in the other labs
figure that there's merit in it. We're going to call it Barton's Therapy
in your honor. It's going to cause a minor social revolution. A lot of
laws are going to have to be rewritten. I can see where it's going to be
illegal for children not to smoke. Funny, isn't it?
"I've contacted the maternity ward. They have three babies still alive
upstairs. We get all the newborn in this town, or didn't you know.
Funny, isn't it, how we still try to reproduce. They're rigging a smoke
chamber for the kids. The head nurse is screaming like a wounded tiger,
but she'll feel better with live babies to care for. The only bad thing
I can see is that it may cut down on her chain smoking. She's been
worried a lot about infant mortality.
"And speaking of nurseries--that reminds me. I wanted to ask you
something."
"Yes?"
"Will you marry me? I've wanted to ask you before, but I didn't dare.
Now I think you owe me something--your life. And I'd like to take care
of it from now on."
"Of course I will," Mary said. "And I have reasons, too. If I marry you,
you can't possibly do that silly thing you plan."
"What thing?"
"Naming the treatment Barton's. It'll have to be Kramer's."
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Analog Science Fact and Science
Fiction_ February 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without
note.