Collins, our print man, said, "Why not just shoot them back into
wherever it is they go, with another i-Gun?"
"And have them come bleeding back after a few weeks?" Paul frowned him
silent.
He picked up a hammer from the bench and tapped the tiny, glinting
speck. The point flattened out a bit, but the thud of the hammer
indicated how solidly it was stuck. Then he walked around behind the
point and struck it a hard blow from the cross-section side. The
hammer shivered in his hand and he dropped it, rubbing his numbed
fingers with his other hand.
"Lieutenant," he said slowly, "we are up against something."
We found we could file away the metal easily enough. Sure it filed away
until the file cut into empty space. But cold comfort that was. In a
few hours, we knew, molecule by molecule, the screw buried in the other
dimension would come oozing back, a minute but lethal speck ready to
ambush the first very tall man who walked toward it.
Tall man!
That's why Leo Baxter and I had failed to find it in the first place.
I had criss-crossed that room half a thousand times in my previous
examinations. If I had been taller, or the speck of metal lower--
"We've got to bring Calvin Baxter back to consciousness somehow," I
said. "We've got to find out how that extractor of his works."
"Right!" Jerry said, dropping his hands in resignation. We'd run out of
ideas at the same time, and the senior Baxter appeared to be our only
hope.
* * * * *
We fanned our way out of there, into the squad car, and proceeded at a
gingerly five miles per hour back to headquarters. On my insistence,
Calvin Baxter had been set up in a private room at the jail with Doc
Thorsen in attendance. The city hospitals were so jammed with accident
victims and frantic relatives that it was no place to work with a man
who was our only salvation.
When I explained everything to Dr. Thorsen and told him how important
it was that we bring Calvin back to consciousness he shook his head.
"It might be done, but it would probably kill him--"
"But you said he'd never recover anyway," I argued.
Thorsen seemed to be considering that. "Yes," he said at last. "That's
more apparent now than ever. He's beginning to suffer the usual
complications of immobility. Probably won't last more than a few weeks
anyway. But can't you get the dope you want from his brother?" he
stalled while he weighed his ethics against the necessity of the moment.
"His brother," I told him, "is dead. Paper clips. Right through the
heart."
"I see. Well, we could operate, but as I said, Calvin wouldn't survive
for long. Maybe only hours or minutes. And maybe not even long enough
to regain consciousness after we remove the clot."
I said, "I've left a crew at the Baxter house to tear it apart, board
by board, until we find this so-called _extractor_ that Leo hid. But
even after we find it, we need Calvin to tell us how to make it work.
There must be a part missing."
We had wandered into Calvin's room and were talking over his great,
supine body, covered to the chin with a white sheet. The speck of scalp
on his forehead had dried up and dropped off leaving only a faint white
spot.
As I mentioned the missing part, his lips began moving and a grunt
issued from his throat. "Listen," I said. "He hears me! He's trying to
talk!"
"No, Lieutenant." Thorsen said, putting a hand to his eyes. "He's been
grunting like that for days. The only word that ever comes out is his
brother's name, Leo."
The name struck anger and frustration in me. "Leo," I half-shouted.
"That stinking little--never even visited his brother!"
"Relax, Gene. That won't do any good. The man's dead," he reminded me.
"Relax? When all over the country people are tearing their bodies to
pieces? Innocent people. Little kids--"
"I know, I know. I just spent nine hours in the emergency ward.
Peritonitis. Cardiac injury. Lungs. Torn eye-balls. And it's probably
just the beginning."
"Then what are you waiting for?" I demanded. "Our only chance is to
bring Calvin Baxter to consciousness long enough to explain how his
extractor works."
Doc ran trembling hands through his fuzz of white hair. For the first
time I noticed that the pupils of his eyes were moving back and forth
in little quick, darting motions like a wild animal looking for
escape. "I--don't know, Gene. I suppose you are right. Only--we need
permission--we must--you see, he might die, and--"
I took a good look at him and suddenly realized that despite his calm
voice, the old man was going to pieces. I grabbed him by the arm
and hauled him out of there, across the hall to the chief's office.
Durstine had his head down on his arms, slouched over the desk fast
asleep between two clanging telephones.
"Wake up, chief!" I said, shaking him by the shoulder. "We have to get
Baxter to City Hospital and--"
Durstine raised his head and stared at me. His usually sharp, gray eyes
were dull, and his face looked dirty with a stubble of black whiskers.
With a deliberate motion of both hands he knocked the receivers off
both phones and fell back in his swivel chair. "Now what?" he asked
thickly.
"You're drunk!" I exclaimed. _Durstine, who would fire a 20-year man
without a qualm if he caught a single trace of beer on his breath on
duty._
"What else is new?" He could barely focus his eyes on me.
I swallowed a couple of times and began explaining what must be done.
Get the mayor and Civil Defense on the phone. Commandeer all radio
stations to explain the true nature of the metallic particles to the
public. Tell them to stay put, and when they did move, to walk slowly,
fanning the air ahead of them with something solid--an umbrella, a
coat, newspaper, garbage can lid--anything to warn them of the tiny,
suspended daggers.
"Yeah. Great idea. Some people doing it already." He said it without
enthusiasm. "Only trouble is, the phones are swamped. Communications
are breaking down already, and when people learn about the fever, they
will blow sky-high."
"The fever?"
"The fever." He bobbed his head loosely. "My Jerry died of it this
afternoon. Came down with it day before yesterday. By the time we got
him to the hospital this morning he was running a hundred and five.
Docs were too busy with bleeders. Wouldn't listen to me until it was
too late. Jerry's dead. My little Jerry." His voice was flat, his eyes
staring straight ahead.
Jerry was his only son, and one of the first kids in town to own an
i-Gun. Durstine had said he bought it for himself. The chief went on,
"What's more, the fever's epidemic. Before we left the hospital they
were dragging victims in by the hundreds. Not just kids, either. On top
of this other thing, we got the worst epidemic in history. No one knows
what it is."