Towards the end of April the Canadian research team left for Hong
Kong. Now that intercontinental air traffic had ceased, Sea Island was
quieter than usual, but even so, the roar of engines warming up in the
cold dawn made it difficult to hear. Out on the tarmac the big RCAF
jet transport rolled ponderously behind its tractor, wings drooping
like a great eagle hovering over its nest. It glided silently to the
loading area and we moved, a small knot of people, to where we could
watch and wait for the word to embark.
"I hope Hong Kong will be warmer than this, Harry," I said, shivering
deeper into my trench coat as the cold dawn wind crawled up my sleeves
and down my neck.
"April is usually very pleasant," he said. "It's after the winter and
before the rains."
"I was there a couple of times after the Korean War. I imagine the
Kowloon side is cut off now. Used to be some nice shopping centers
there."
"I don't suppose there'll be much left," he replied. "The area has been
isolated for months. Everybody who could get away has gone. I expect it
will be more like a prison camp than a tourist resort."
"Well, it shouldn't be too bad," I grinned at him. "Some of those
Chinese girls with the high split skirts were mighty nice looking."
"Hush up now, you hear?" Polly said. "Don't you be giving him ideas."
"I don't need to Polly, he's been there before."
"Don't pay any attention to John," Pat said. "His mind's in a rut."
"Can you think of a better one?" Hallam asked.
"Oh, you men!" Polly snorted contemptuously.
"The luggage is all loaded, Doctor," a young RCAF officer had come up
and reported to Cope. "We're ready to go now."
"Thank you," Harry said and turned to the Chief. "I'll let you know
what happens, sir."
"Take care of yourself, boy," Dr. Hallam said as they shook hands.
We turned away, leaving him alone with Polly. In a few minutes she
rejoined us, chattering brightly in her usual animated fashion until
the plane moved out to the runway and Harry could no longer see us.
Then her composure cracked and she cried. Pat and I took her to our
place where the two girls buzzed around making breakfast and keeping
themselves busy until the shock of parting had worn off a bit for
Polly. Over our second cup of coffee she started to talk about it.
"It's a strange thing to say but I'm glad Harry's gone. I just know he
never would have been happy with me if he hadn't done it."
"Why do you think that?" I asked.
"He never did tell me much about his people ... no more than he told
you-all. I knew he was holding out on me but it wasn't any of my
business. These English people don't brag much about themselves and
their families. Anyway I knew he felt real bad when he got the S-Flu
because as soon as he knew he was sterile he tried to tell me to go
find somebody else. He seemed to think because he couldn't give me
children I wouldn't want him. I told him I didn't hanker to marry a
stud horse but it didn't do much good. I guess having no mother and
father and then losing his chance to have kids of his own made him
feel low. Maybe this will get it out of his head and he'll be OK," she
paused, "that is, if he ever comes back. Somehow I feel deep down that
he won't."
"Oh, don't be silly, Polly," Pat shut her up. "You got up too early
this morning. Here, have some more hot coffee."
* * * * *
With the coming of spring across the cold northern continents, the big
counter-offensive had begun. For years the agricultural scientists had
prepared for such an occasion and now they went into action. Naturally
it was all top secret but we were among the privileged few, since the
border-line between the world of plant pathology and the diseases of
man and animals had grown increasingly vague. It was essential that we
know of their work and they of ours. Many of the original discoveries
in virology had been made by botanical scientists and the first virus
to be crystallized, the tobacco mosaic, was a disease confined to the
plant world.
Since the Geophysical Year of 1958 and the advent of the space
satellites, the meteorologists had made tremendous advances. Using
information derived from the weather globes circling the earth, with
their data on sun-spots and radar maps of storm centers, plus the
mass of information now available through the weather stations in the
polar regions, at sea and on land, the weather predictors had become
extremely accurate. With seeding techniques, electronically controlled,
they had made a start at changing the weather, although, up to now,
little of this had been done because of a lack of international
agreements. Now they were free to try out their ideas. It was
interesting to follow in the newspapers the results of their work,
and even more interesting to see how the peoples of the world tried
to explain the various events. The great pandemics raging across the
earth had resulted in a rush to the churches and the rise of all sorts
of weird sects, prophets and calamity howlers. This frantic search for
security renewed itself when the new wave of disaster began. To avert
suspicion, for a while at least, and also because these great forces
could not easily be localised, our NATO allies had to suffer with the
Communists. Only the heads of the British Government knew, and they,
with their usual courage, had agreed to endure, with the promise of
American aid.
The first attack was a weather offensive. Using the jet streams which
flowed swiftly to the east, swarms of tiny balloons were released by
planes from the American Navy supercarriers in the Atlantic, and from
the bombers of the Strategic Air Command cruising in the stratosphere
above them. By the use of timing devices these deadly little toys
destroyed themselves and dropped the new electronic seeders into the
moisture-filled clouds rolling from the Atlantic across Europe. The
wettest spring in recorded history was the result. Fields were almost
untillable and the hay and grain crops that were planted were never
harvested. The wet weather favored the growth of fungus and the rusts
and blights so carefully cultivated by our agronomists and seeded into
the winds that blew over Europe and Asia, thrived on what remained
of the harvest. Further to the east the winds, now emptied of their
moisture, sucked water from the steppes of Siberia, where the great new
collective farms ordered by Khrushchev had torn up the grasslands.
Dust storms scoured off the topsoil. No plants could grow. No animal
could survive, lacking both food and water. The greatest migration in
living memory was the result. The trek of the Okies out of the dust
bowl of the early thirties was a mere trickle compared to the flood of
refugees that poured east into Russia or south, down into the desert
lands of the Middle East and over the Himalayan barriers. Many died
before they got to the borders of India and the other Islamic lands.
Many were killed by the reinforced border guards determined to prevent
the spread of disease and famine in their own ravaged territories.
Of course the Communists retaliated, or perhaps it was in part the
result of our own interference with nature. That fall, early frost hit
the West Coast and blizzards screamed down from the Arctic over the
plains. Our grain crops were ruined and much of our late fruit and
vegetables. And now the "Folly of the Fifties", as one presidential
candidate had called the price support programs, paid an unexpected
dividend. From every cave and warehouse, from dumps and silos and
refrigerator rooms, the stores of grain and potatoes, butter and meat,
poured out by truck and train. Convoys of food ships had already left
for the NATO countries. The terrible death toll of the measlepox
made available sufficient food for the rice eaters of the Indian
subcontinent from their existing supplies, since the weather war
had had little effect in those regions. Africa, its own population
decimated by the same measlepox disease, was left to its rich resources.
The Reds were not yet beaten. Desperate for food, they gambled boldly.
The Soviet premier himself appealed to the United States and Canada
for aid, in a shrewd psychological move. He knew we did not want to
announce to the world that we were at war. It was doubtful if even our
own people would believe it. World opinion would be likely to turn
against us and uninformed or unbelieving governments, side with the
Communists to isolate us. We had to help them, at least in appearance.
In spite of tremendous losses the Soviets still outnumbered us and,
if pushed too far, might start the long-awaited march into the vacuum
left by the dying populations of Asia and the evacuation of our bases,
daring us to start an all-out war.
The counterstroke was a masterpiece. Supplies of flour and other
prepared foods were rushed, in great fleets of ships, to the European
ports of the Russian Empire. Every pound of flour, every ton of
meat, every cask of butter had been treated with the new tasteless
and odorless contraceptive compound which our scientists had recently
discovered. We never knew if the Russians found out why their women
were not getting pregnant ... the rate of conception drops off in
starvation in any case. It did not matter. They had two choices, to eat
or to die.
* * * * *
In June, six weeks after he had left Sea Island, we heard again from
Harry. Of course Polly had had letters, but purely personal ones as
Harry had been much too busy to do more than write, "I love you, wish
you were here" notes. Now, finally, he gave us some news. Polly came
bursting into the coffee room one morning waving a sheaf of electron
pictures in one hand and a bundle of closely written pages in the other.
"I got a big letter from Harry this morning," she said to the three of
us around the table. "Would y'all like to hear the news?"
"Aw, Polly, I don't want to hear that mush," I kidded her, "Why don't
you sell it to True Love Confessions magazine?"
"You shut your big mouth, man, and open your ears."
"Go ahead Polly. Never mind funny boy here," Pat said.
"Harry says they have a big lab set up in the main hospital in
Victoria ... that's the city on the island, Hong Kong itself, and
they're working shifts, twenty-four hours a day, to try to attenuate
the measlepox virus."
"Brother! What a job!" I exclaimed. "One mistake and you've had it."
"Too right, you have!" the Chief said feelingly, his long forgotten
Australian slang coming to the surface.
"They had to get out of Kowloon, he says because the refugees sneaked
through the barriers into the New Territories and spread the disease.
It was terrible because there were about three million people crowded
in there. Now most of them are dead and the police patrol all around
the island, day and night, to keep others from landing. He says almost
all the British, except soldiers, have left. They send them to some
small island first and then, if they haven't got any disease, they can
go home to England. The research team is behind barbed wire and almost
nobody is allowed in or out--but their quarters are comfortable."
"Hot and cold running maids, I suppose," I said.
"If you were there they'd be running, all right."
"Shut up, John. Go on Polly," Pat said and pinched my arm.
"They haven't succeeded in weakening the virus yet and if they kill it
with formalin or one of the usual methods it won't work as a vaccine."
"What ways have they tried?" Hallam said.
"He doesn't say. There's one thing I don't like," she said
thoughtfully. "He has an idea that if they went into China they might
find survivors of the pox in areas where the disease has almost died
down and get some serum from them, or perhaps find that the measlepox
is weakened in those areas and could be used."
"It's too bad our agents didn't get enough vaccine for testing," I
said. "It would have saved exposing our men to that sort of danger."
"One of his ideas is to give volunteers serum from recovered cases and
then let them get the measlepox."
"You mean like giving children gamma globulin shots after they've been
exposed to measles so they'll get just a mild case of the disease and
be protected for life?" Pat asked.
"That's the general idea," the Chief said. "Then, too, he might want
to look at the animal population in the area. There's a theory that
cowpox was originally smallpox that got into cattle. Now if you get
cowpox, as milkmaids in England often did many years ago, on their
hands, you probably won't catch smallpox. That's how the legend arose
that milkmaids had lovely complexions. They didn't get smallpox and so
their faces weren't scarred like most people in the eighteenth century.
Jenner got the original idea for vaccination from that. The same thing
might apply to measlepox. If he could find a mild form of it in some
animal we could use that as a vaccine. We try to do this in the Lab by
inoculating animals. Harry wants to go out into the devastated areas
and see if nature has done it for him."
"That may be soon, Doctor," Polly said, "but I'll bet he's also hoping
to pick up news of his folks."
"Could be," Hallam agreed, "but they are very small pins in a terribly
big haystack, if still alive."
"That crazy man," Polly murmured. "I know he'll kill himself yet. If he
doesn't get the pox the Reds will catch him."
"There's not too much danger from the Chicoms right now," I said.
"The way they are dying out, the border guard must have holes in it
big enough to take a division of troops through, let alone a small
reconnaissance party."
* * * * *
In the early summer of 1963 Pat had completely recovered from her
miscarriage. The Chief and I had suffered nothing more than mild colds
from the FS-flu. We had set up new experiments to see if we could
temper the destructiveness of the virus with the intention of confining
its effects to the human race.
"I have no compunction about using it on the human race," Hallam said.
"The human being has free will and should be prepared to take the
consequences of his follies and work out his own salvation."
I had to agree.
One late summer day when the tests were running smoothly he said to me,
"John, I think you should take Pat out of here for a month. There's no
point in isolation now we are all recovered, and you need a rest."
"What about you?" I said.
"I'll take a break after you get back. Besides, I want you to do a
little experimenting on your vacation."
I wondered out loud what was coming next.
"Well," he smirked, "this is a good chance for a honeymoon and you
might find out for me how permanent the sterility effects of the
original FS-flu are."
I couldn't think of a more pleasant experiment.
* * * * *
The United Church ceremony was a quiet one. Both Pat and I felt that,
having been married before and having subsequently made fools of
ourselves, we didn't want much fuss this time. The ceremony was quiet
but the party that followed certainly was not. Dr. Hallam had recently
moved into a penthouse apartment in the swanky new Lion Heights
district overlooking Howe Sound and the Straits of Georgia. From the
church it was a quick run out to his home, followed all the way by the
hooting automobiles of half the Laboratory staff and a good crowd from
the Hospital itself.
From the corner living room of the apartment there was a magnificent
view south to Point Grey and the University. Off to the southwest, in
the haze of late afternoon, the Olympic mountains glimmered faintly
across the water and the dark silhouette of the Island cut the western
horizon. To escape for a moment from the uproar, I had moved out onto
the rooftop garden and, with my arm around Pat, watched the slow ending
of the day. Behind us the french doors opened as Hallam joined us. The
buzz of talk and laughter, heightened by the cocktails, broke the quiet
of our thoughts and died again as he closed the doors behind him.
"This really is a lovely spot," Pat said to him. "Will you pardon a
woman's curiosity and tell me, isn't it terribly expensive?"
Hallam grinned. "It would be except that I'm part owner of the building
and get a cut rate."
We stood there quietly, absorbed in the view, then Pat took Hallam's
arm. "Let's go in now," she said. "We will have to leave soon."
The noise came at us in waves as we opened the door. Little knots of
people were all over the rooms, talking, laughing, eating, moving about
and re-forming new groups.
"They obviously don't need us," I whispered to Pat. "Let's get out of
here." I winked at the boss and he shook both hands to us, prizefighter
fashion, as we slipped out.
The Ferguson glided into the driveway without the motor running as
I tried to escape. A roar of hand-clapping, cheers, jeers and yells
broke out above. It was too late for them to catch us so they waved
and shouted words of tipsy wisdom. A few ribald male remarks were
stifled by feminine hands and the last howls and shrieks faded back up
the hill. At the bottom I stopped and removed the inevitable tin cans
and old shoes, brushed off all visible confetti and moved on towards
Horseshoe Bay. The sloop was ready. While I started the motor and cast
off, Pat changed into slacks and sweater in the cabin and then got busy
making sandwiches and coffee. I set our course around Bowen Island,
heading for the Sunshine Coast and the long winding fiords that split
the timbered ranges.
* * * * *
It was hours later. At Pat's suggestion I had gone below for a rest
and then had relieved her while she did the same. We wanted to get
well away from the big city and the ocean traffic before we stopped.
About two o'clock she wandered up from below. The moon was high now
and in the clean cool light we were close to shore. Here the coast was
deserted and, as we skirted a rocky point, a small cove appeared, the
entrance barely large enough for the yacht. The moon, going over to
the west, shot its light through the gap to show a sandy beach dimly
outlined at the farther side.
"John, let's look in there. It seems a likely place to stop."
I cut the motor and glided through the entrance, trusting the smooth
unbroken surface to cover enough depth for the boat. The million
pinpoint lights of our phosphorescent track died away as we slowed. The
bowsprit almost overhung the sloping beach when I dropped anchor.
"Plenty of depth here," I said quietly, reluctant to break the silence.
"It should be a good spot to spend the night."
Sheltered by the northern arm of the cove, the remains of an old cabin
hugged the rising slope. In front of it, in the little clearing, a few
old fruit trees, branches broken with age, spotted the grass. The small
stream that probably had tempted this early settler ran at one side of
the cleared land, the water spreading out to glitter over the stones
and sand of the beach before losing itself in the dark salty bay.
"What a wonderful place for a swim," Pat whispered, her eyes enormous
in her shadowed face.
The air was still warm, with enough breeze to discourage any mosquitoes.
Quickly Pat stripped and stood there proudly, waiting for me. To keep
her hair dry she had put on a white bathing cap and, in that pale
light, she shone like some strange shaven statue from an old Egyptian
tomb. She moved and the illusion disappeared. Naked, I reached for her
and pulled her close. For a moment she clung to me and then, teasingly,
she pushed me away and dived over the side. The water was cold and the
chill of it on my skin soon relieved the tension the sight of her body
had aroused in me. For a while we swam and splashed in the shallows,
then I loaded the dinghy with towels and blankets, threw in a flask of
rum with some cokes to dilute it and we went ashore. Her hand in mine,
we walked around the tiny cove, the sand coming up pleasantly between
our toes and the cool salty water sparkling on our skins. I brushed it
out of my hair and Pat shivered as the fine spray hit her bare skin.
"Better get warmed up," I said, and led her back to the clearing.
There, from a deep pool dug in the stream by that early settler, I
poured fresh water over her and rubbed vigorously with my hands to get
off the salt and warm her up. The throbbing aching torment of my desire
returned. She moved closer, her tongue wet on my lips.
In the soft grey glow of late moonlight, her face, twisted for a time
by the agony of her passion, was smiling calm and her eyes looked up at
me serenely. I rolled away from her and pulled the blanket over us. She
cuddled into my shoulder and slept.