Part 28 (1/2)

His Honor paled. ”You're certain?” he demanded of Dr. Thornd.y.k.e.

”I'm certain. You'll note the blood on his finger; Cornell recently picked off a patch of Mekstrom Flesh no larger than the head of a pin.

It was his first sign.” The doctor went on explaining, ”Normally this early seizure would be difficult to detect, except from a clinical examination. But since I am telepath and Cornell has perception, his own mind told me he was aware of his sorry condition. One only need read his mind, or to dig at the tiny bit of Mekstrom Flesh that he dropped to your floor.”

The judge eyed me nastily. ”Maybe I should add a charge of contaminating a courtroom,” he muttered. He was running his eyes across the floor from me to wherever I'd been, trying to locate the little patch. I helped him by not looking at it. The rest of the court faded back from me still farther. I could hardly have been less admired if I'd been made of pure cyanide gas.

The judge rapped his gavel sharply. ”I parole this prisoner in the custody of Dr. Thornd.y.k.e, who as a representative of the Medical Center will remove the prisoner to that place where the proper treatment awaits him.”

”Now see here--” I started. But His Honor cut me off.

”You'll go as I say,” he snapped. ”Unfortunately, the Law does not permit me to enjoy any cruel or unusual punishments, or I'd insist upon your ninety-day sentence and watch you die painfully. I--Bailiff! Remove this menace before I forget my position here and find myself in contempt of the law I have sworn to uphold. I cannot be impartial before a man who contaminates my Court with the world's most dangerous disease!”

I turned to Thornd.y.k.e. ”All right,” I grunted. ”You win.”

He smiled again; I wanted to wipe that smile away with a set of knuckles but I knew that all I'd get would be a broken hand against Thornd.y.k.e's stone-hard flesh. ”Now, Mr. Cornell,” he said with that clinical smoothness, ”let's not get the old standard att.i.tude.”

”Nearly everybody who contracts Mekstrom's Disease,” he said to the judge, ”takes on a persecution complex as soon as he finds out that he has it. Some of them have even accused me of fomenting some big fantastic plot against them. Please, Mr. Cornell,” he went on facing me, ”we'll give you the best of treatment that Medical Science knows.”

”Yeah,” I grunted.

His Honor rapped on the gavel once more. ”Officer Gruenwald,” he snapped, ”you will accompany the prisoner and Dr. Thornd.y.k.e to the Medical Center and having done that you will return to report to me that you have accomplished your mission.”

Then the judge glared around, rapped once more, and cried, ”Case Finished. Next Case!”

I felt almost as sorry for the next guy coming in as I felt for myself.

His Honor was going to be one tough baby for some days to come. As they escorted me out, a janitor came in and began to swab the floor where I'd been standing. He was using something nicely corrosive that made the icy, judicial eyes water, all of which discomfort was likely to be added to the next law-breaker's sorry lot.

I was in fine company. Thornd.y.k.e was a telepath and Officer Gruenwald was perceptive. They went as a team and gave me about as much chance to escape as if I'd been a horned toad sealed in a cornerstone. Gruenwald, of course, treated me as though my breath was deadly, my touch foul, and my presence evil. In Gruenwald's eyes, the only difference between me and Medusa the Gorgon was that looking at me did not turn him to stone.

He kept at least one eye on me almost constantly.

I could almost perceive Thornd.y.k.e's amus.e.m.e.nt. With the best of social amenities, he could hardly have spent a full waking day in the company of either a telepath or a perceptive without giving away the fact that he was Mekstrom. But with me to watch over, Officer Gruenwald's mental attention was not to be turned aside to take an impolite dig at his companion. Even if he had, Thornd.y.k.e would have been there quickly to turn his attention aside.

I've read the early books that contain predictions of how we are supposed to operate. The old boys seemed to have the quaint notion that a telepath should be able at once to know everything that goes on everywhere, and a perceptive should be aware of everything material about him. There should be no privacy. There was to be no defense against the mental peeping Tom.

It ain't necessarily so. If Gruenwald had taken a dig at Thornd.y.k.e's hide, the doctor would have speared the policeman with a cold, indignant eye and called him for it. Of course, there was no good reason for Gruenwald to take a dig at Thornd.y.k.e and so he didn't.

So I went along with the status quo and tried to think of some way to break it up.

An hour later I was still thinking, and the bleeding on my finger had stopped. Mekstrom Flesh had covered the raw spot with a thin, stone-hard plate that could not be separated visually from the rest of my skin.

”As a perceptive,” observed Dr. Thornd.y.k.e in a professional tone, ”you'll notice the patch of infection growing on Mr. Cornell's finger.

The rate of growth seems normal; I'll have to check it accurately once I get him to the clinic. In fifty or sixty hours, Mr. Cornell's finger will be solid to the first joint. In ninety days his arm will have become as solid as the arm of a marble statue.”

I interjected, ”And what do we do about it?”

He moved his head a bit and eyed me in the rear view mirror. ”I hope we can help you, Cornell,” he said in a tone of sympathy that was definitely intended to impress Officer Gruenwald with his medical appreciation of the doctor's debt to humanity. ”I sincerely hope so. For in doing so, we will serve the human race. And,” he admitted with an entirely human-sounding selfishness, ”I may be able to deliver a thesis on the cure that will qualify me for my scholarate.”