Matt Magoffin kept his seat after the evening meal, as the conference
was scheduled to be held in the messroom right away. He had broken out
a pack of cigarettes and was smoking--a long-deferred luxury.
There had been more talking than eating at the tables. Everyone, Matt
realized, must have the facts pretty well assimilated. He saw the
director rising and turned to face him.
"I think everyone here," Isaac Trigg's voice plunged abruptly into the
meeting, "is acquainted with the disaster that has befallen Earth. Are
there any questions now?"
No one said anything.
"Very well," said Trigg, tugging at his beard. "As I see it, we have
four aims to consider.
"First, trying to establish contact with any survivors. Second,
securing our own continued existence. Third, the survival of the race."
He paused and frowned, then added, "And lastly preserving our heritage
of knowledge." He came to a stop, his eyes on their tense faces. "Does
anyone wish to add anything?"
No one did.
"Very well," said Trigg. "Suppose we take up the last item first. We
are all specialists in some branch of science. Together we cover the
extant field of knowledge rather thoroughly. Louisville is near. It has
a large library and there is a fine technical school with laboratories
and a library of its own. Those books should be preserved. It might
even be advisable for us to move to the campus.
"Expeditions can be sent to other cities to cull the cream of their
shelves. We should set ourselves to instruct the children--"
"What children?" Barb Poindexter interrupted. She was the psychiatrist,
a plump brown-haired woman with ample curves.
"Your children. You aren't over thirty-three, Miss Poindexter." The
director made rapid mental calculations. "You should be able to produce
a minimum of seven children."
Miss Poindexter gasped, regarded the grinning men in horror and got
very red.
"No occasion to be embarrassed," said Trigg. "Most natural thing in the
world."
He glared about the audience. No one seemed inclined to dispute his
assertion, so he went on.
"This is all very sketchy. Our plans will have to be elastic. We
should, I believe, continue to live in the ship until we can thoroughly
explore the neighborhood. According to Captain Bascom, there is an
abundance of canned food. We won't starve.
"There is, though, the danger of contracting the plague. I am rather
hazy on that subject. So I am going to turn you over to Dr. Lewis."
Cam Lewis stood up. She was a tall, raw-boned blonde, handsome,
self-assured and groomed to the last degree. She said in a crisp voice:
"To the best of our information, the plague struck seven months ago and
wiped out civilization. There is a better than even chance that it has
run its course.
"If, as Jesse Sawyer thinks"--she smiled at the fat biologist--"the
plague was caused by a cloud of life spores from outer space, then
the spores might have adjusted to this environment and are no longer
malignant...."
Matt leaned forward and asked, "Do you mean, Cam, that these life
spores may have begun to evolve into something else?"
"Why not?" came the biologist's terse answer.
Matt glanced around. Jesse Sawyer hadn't risen. He was sprawled in his
chair, his bald crown gleaming.
"Evolution," he said with a wave of his pudgy hand, "isn't static.
The spores could have developed in the human body into microscopic
organisms. Parasitic, probably. But when the humans died they had
to adapt themselves to a different environment. They might still be
with us but have lost the faculty of feeding off animal tissue or
whatever they attacked." He shrugged his heavy shoulders. "That's all
speculative, of course."
"Anyway," said Cam brightly, "we've all been exposed. There's nothing
we can do but wait and see if the black spots develop." And she sat
down.
It was an unfortunate remark, Matt thought. Isaac Trigg, he noticed,
was looking haggard when he rose. The director said, "Sparks is still
broadcasting, trying to reach any radio station that might be in
operation...."
Matt interrupted, "But it's possible, Isaac, that there are communities
without a radio."
"Yes," agreed Trigg. "We're not in a position, though, to send out
extended exploration parties. That'll have to wait--"
Suddenly, Barb Poindexter screamed!
She was sitting close to the starboard passage. Matt whirled around,
his eyes almost starting from his head.
A gaunt, half-naked man crouched in the doorway!
* * * * *
For seconds an absolute silence gripped everyone in the room. The man
continued to crouch there, a frightened expression in his sunken eyes.
He was barefooted and clad only in the ragged remnants of a pair of
trousers.
And there was an iron collar about his neck from which a short length
of chain dangled!
Matt stared at it in disbelief.
Suddenly, the man seemed to hear something. His expression of fright
intensified. He took a half-step into the room, clasping his bony hands
before him.
"Please, sirs, please! Don't let them get me. Oh, my God, don't let
them take me back!"
"Eh?" said the director.