"Syndrome Johnny" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maclean Katherine)

“Lives will be saved in the long run,” Alcala said obstinately. “Individual deaths are not important in the long run.”

“That is hardly the philosophy for a doctor, is it?” asked Camba with open irony, taking the bill and rising.

They went out of the restaurant in silence. Camba’s ’copter stood at the kerb.

“Would you care for a lift home, Doctor Alcala?” The offer was made with the utmost suavity.

Alcala hesitated fractionally. “Why, yes, thank you.” It would not do to give the investigator any reason for suspicion by refusing.

As the ’copter lifted into the air, Camba spoke with a more friendly note in his voice, as if he humoured a child. “Come, Alcala, you’re a doctor dedicated to saving lives. How can you find sympathy for a murderer?”

Alcala sat in the dark, looking through the windshield down at the bright street falling away below. “I’m not a practicing medico; only one night a week do I come to the hospital. I’m a research man. I don’t try to save individual lives. I’m dedicated to improving the average life, the average health. Can you understand that? Individuals may be sick and individuals may die, but the average lives on. And if the average is better, then I’m satisfied.”

The ’copter flew on. There was no answer.

“I’m not good with words,” said Alcala. Then, taking out his pen-knife and unfolding it, he said, “Watch!” He put his index finger on the altimeter dial, where there was light, and pressed the blade against the flesh between his finger and his thumb. He increased the pressure until the flesh stood out white on either side of the blade, bending, but not cut.

“Three generations back, this pressure would have gone right through the hand.” He took away the blade and there was only a very tiny cut. Putting the knife away, he brought out his lighter. The blue flame was steady and hot. Alcala held it close to the dashboard and put his finger directly over it, counting patiently, “One, two, three, four, five –” He pulled the lighter back, snapping it shut.

“Three generations ago, a man couldn’t have held a finger over that flame for more than a tenth part of that count. Doesn’t all this prove something to you?”

The ’copter was hovering above Alcala’s house. Camba lowered it to the ground and opened the door before answering. “It proves only that a good and worthy man will cut and burn his hand for an unworthy friendship. Goodnight.”

Disconcerted, Alcala watched the ’copter lift away into the night, then, turning, saw that the lights were still on in the laboratory. Camba might have deduced something from that, if he knew that Nita and the girl were not supposed to be home.

Alcala hurried in.

Johnny hadn’t left yet. He was sitting at Alcala’s desk with his feet on the wastebasket, the way Alcala often liked to sit, reading a technical journal. He looked up, smiling. For a moment Alcala saw him with the new clarity of a stranger. The lean, weathered face; brown eyes with smile deltas at the corners; wide shoulders; steady, big hands holding the magazine – solid, able, and ruthless enough to see what had to be done, and do it.

“I was waiting for you, Ric.”

“The Feds are after you.” Ricardo Alcala had been running. He found he was panting and his heart was pounding.

Delgados’ smile did not change. “It’s all right, Ric. Everything’s done. I can leave any time now.” He indicated a square metal box standing in a corner. “There’s the stuff.”

What stuff? The product Johnny had been working on? “You haven’t time for that now, Johnny. You can’t sell it. They’d watch for anyone of your description selling chemicals. Let me loan you some money.”

“Thanks.” Johnny was smiling oddly. “Everything’s set. I won’t need it. How close are they to finding me?”

“They don’t know where you’re staying.” Alcala leaned on the desk edge and put out his hand. “They tell me you’re Syndrome Johnny.”

“I thought you’d figured that one out.” Johnny shook his hand formally. “The name is John Osborne Drake. You aren’t horrified?”

“No,” Alcala knew that he was shaking hands with a man who would be thanked down all the successive generations of mankind. He noticed again the odd white webwork of scars on the back of Johnny’s hand. He indicated them as casually as he could. “Where did you pick those up?”



John Drake glanced at his hand. “I don’t know, Ric. Truthfully. I’ve had my brains beaten in too often to remember much any more. Unimportant. There are instructions outlining plans and methods filed in safety deposit boxes in almost every big city in the world. Always the same typing, always the same instructions. I can’t remember who typed them, myself or my father, but I must have been expected to forget or they wouldn’t be there. Up to eleven, my memory is all right, but after Dad started to remake me, everything gets fuzzy.”