CHAPTER 10

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.