CV

17

Wednesday morning word came from Bliss’s office that reporters from the networks wanted to interview McNulty. One of Bliss’s deputies brought down a TV camera, and McNulty went through his paces for NBC, CBS, ABC, and PBS. It took nearly an hour. That afternoon he had the privilege of watching himself on the evening news. After disposing of a freak auto accident in Los Angeles, the peace conference in Nairobi, and the weather in the Midwest, the blond newsperson said, “Last Friday a mysterious epidemic swept the floating city, Sea Venture, now in mid-Paciftc waters.” An image of Sea Venture appeared on the rear screen, sparkling white under a smiling sky.

“Medical authorities are baffled. The only doctor on board is the resident physician, director of Sea Venture’s health services, Dr. Wallace McNulty. We talked to Dr. McNulty earlier today by satlink.”

The hideously enlarged image of McNulty’s face appeared in the screen. It smiled insincerely. Watching, McNulty winced.

“Dr. McNulty, what can you tell us about the state of the epidemic on Sea Venture?”

“It’s about the same,” said the bloated McNulty in a creaky voice. “We’re getting three to four cases a day.”

“And the nature of the disease has not been identified, is that correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“What are the symptoms, Dr. McNulty?”

“Sudden collapse, stupor.”

“In other words, the patient goes into a kind of coma?”

“Not a coma. They’re semiconscious, but they don’t respond.”

“What medications have you tried, Doctor?”

“Broad-spectrum antibiotics. They don’t do a thing.” There was a great technical phrase for you—really impressive.

“Dr. McNulty, you’re a general practitioner, is that right?” “Yes.”

“And before you came to Sea Venture, you had a family practice in Santa Barbara?”

“Yes, that’s right.” McNulty was sweating all over again, remembering how he had feared, against all reason, that the next question was going to be, “Are you the Dr. Wallace McNulty who—?”

“Doctor, do you think a medical specialist would be able to handle this epidemic better?”

“I don’t know what kind of specialist. It isn’t any known disease. I’ve consulted with epidemiologists and the top people in tropical diseases. We’ve run every test we can think of.” Defensive. Would anybody trust their life to this man, or even buy a used car from him?

“And nothing is helping?”

“Not so far.” Where was the reassurance, the fatherly glint of compassion in the eye? Why couldn't he be like the doctors on “Life Squad”?

“Doctor, what kind of help would you like from the American people?”

“Well, you could pray for us.”

Great. A little touch of piety. If you can’t get competent medical attention, McNulty thought, you can always pray. The blond newsperson, staring earnestly into the camera, was saying, “Meanwhile, a downed reconnaissance airplane in Tel Aviv Crater—” McNulty turned the set off.

On Tuesday there was a satellite call from the President, carried by the public television screens throughout Sea Venture. Bliss’s voice was heard, but only the President’s face appeared. The President was in the Oval Office, behind the famous desk with its Mickey Mouse figures. “Captain Bliss, I want you to know that the hearts of the American people are going out to you in this terrible emergency.”

"That’s very good to know, sir.”

“And we realize, of course, that you’re doing everything that can be done. We have complete confidence in you. Captain.”

“Thank you. sir.”

“And I’ve asked my staff to keep me informed of every development, day or night, and, Captain Bliss, we’re having a special prayer meeting here tomorrow morning to ask for your safe recovery from this tribulation. And I know you’re going to come through all right.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Bliss.

“Good-bye for now, and God bless you all.”

The patients kept coming in, three a day, then four and five; the rooms in the isolation corridor were beginning to fill up. By the eighth day there were thirty-two victims. McNulty had left word with the night nurses to call him if there was any change, and every night he slept fitfully, expecting his phone to buzz, but it didn’t.

On Friday things got worse. Thomas LeVore, sixty-eight, saw a woman collapse at breakfast, got up, walked out of the restaurant accompanied by his wife, and collapsed himself two minutes later. His wife, who was hysterical, said that he had felt a momentary faintness and had been on his way to McNulty’s office to report. A similar thing happened to Mrs. Frank Ballantine, fifty-one, who had been near Mr. LeVore, and to Minoru Yamamoto, seventy-eight, and to four other people, all within the space of twenty minutes. Then there were no more cases until late that evening, when Mrs. Ora Abbott, fifty-nine, was carried in. Her husband told McNulty that she had felt faint in the corridor that morning—the same corridor where the other victims had collapsed—but had refused to go to McNulty’s office.

On his way across the lobby the following morning, McNulty noticed that the crowd was unusually thin. People seemed to be trying to avoid each other. There was a funny smell in the air. The Madison Restaurant looked only about half full. There was something different about the sound too; there were no raised voices and no laughter.

McNulty greeted the security guard in the isolation corridor. He looked into each of the patients’ rooms, read the charts, talked to Janice for a minute, and then got on the phone to Bliss.

“Mr. Bliss, I want to check something with you. Is attendance off in all the restaurants, or just the Madison?”

“It’s pretty much everywhere. Less on the lower decks. Room service say their phones never stop ringing. We’ve had to transfer staff to room service, but they’re still running hours behind. If you hadn’t rung me, Doctor, I was going to ring you. Could we do some sort of announcement that would reassure the passengers?”

“I was thinking the same thing. Listen, I know this sounds crazy, but I’d like you to tell people not to come in if they feel faint. They were dropping like flies yesterday, all in the same corridor.”

“I don’t quite understand,” Bliss said.

“I don’t either, but I do know people have been keeling over when they start to come here.” He told Bliss about Mrs. Abbott. “She wouldn’t come in, and she lasted longer than any of the others. It doesn’t make any sense, but for Pete’s sake let’s try it.”

“What would you suggest that I say?”

“Well, just that—hell, I don’t know—tell them the medical emergency is under control, and so forth, and they don’t have to report in if they feel faint anymore.”

Bliss’s sigh was clearly audible. “Very well, Doctor. I don’t know if it will do any good, do you?”

“No.”

Afterward, McNulty sat and examined the small, tight knot of panic inside him. The medical emergency was not under control. It was his responsibility, and he couldn’t do a thing. He had a growing number of patients who showed no sign of coming out of their stupor; for all he knew, they would never come out of it. It was hell looking at them in the morning— poor old Professor Newland, for instance, and that nice young couple, Julie Prescott and John Stevens, side by side, waxen and still.