"I--saw a few cases." He said it almost under his breath.
I grabbed him by his coat lapels. "Snap out of it, Doc. If you know
what it is, for God's sake tell us!"
"They don't know what it is," he said looking down at the floor.
"But you do. I can tell by your face."
"All right, maybe I do." His face was drawn and defiant with an almost
fanatical determination. "There aren't enough sulphas and antibiotics
in the world to control it. We can't do anything about it, so why drive
people crazy with fear?"
Durstine was coming out of his fog. He opened the big bottom drawer of
his desk and handed an open fifth of whiskey to Thorsen. He said, "Doc,
you're in no condition to make a decision like that."
Thorsen tipped up the bottle and let several swallows pour down his
leathery neck. The stuff brought tears to his eyes. He blinked them
away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "All right, public
guardian, I'll tell you. It's pretty obvious, and other medical men
will think of it pretty quick, I suppose--when they find out the cause
of the punctures they are treating. This fever is just more of the
same. Peritonitis. Only it's caused by particles so small that you
can't even feel when they penetrate the skin. They're large enough to
poke holes in your intestines, though. Large enough to make microscopic
passages for bacteria. So, you see, for every bleeding patient, there
will be hundreds, thousands, coming down with peritonitis--infection of
the body cavity from within. Without drugs the inflammation spreads in
hours, and the temperature goes up and up. It's fatal."
I could almost feel the pain in my belly and the fire in my veins as he
spoke. Doc Thorsen took another drink and handed me the bottle. "You
look a little pale, Gene. Have a jolt and see if _your_ guts leak."
Durstine and I both had a drink, and the chief said, "I see what you
meant. I wish you'd kept your mouth shut."