Project Pope by Clifford D. Simak Page A

took the liberty,” said the man from Vatican, “of asking the manager to have it brought down for you. It will be waiting in the lobby.”

Chapter Eight
    The woman was old. Her face resembled a withered apple, the mouth pinched in, the puffy cheeks showing an unhealthy, hectic pink. The black button eyes stared at Tennyson with no sign that she had seen him. She struggled for breath. Beneath the sheet, the body was shrunken and stringy.
    The gray-garbed nurse handed the chart to Tennyson.
    â€œThis woman is important to us, Doctor,” said Ecuyer.
    â€œHow long has she been this way?”
    â€œFive days,” said the nurse. “Five days since …”
    â€œAnderson should not have gone on his hunting trip,” said Ecuyer. “He told me she’d be all right; rest was all she needed.”
    â€œAnderson is the man who was killed?”
    â€œHe and the two others. They tried to talk him out of going. He was new here; he did not recognize the danger. I told you it was an Old One of the Woods, did I not?”
    â€œNo, you didn’t. What is an Old One?”
    â€œA huge carnivore. Bloodthirsty, ferocious. Attacks a man on sight. The other two went along in an effort to protect the doctor—”
    â€œThe temperature has held for the last three days,” said Tennyson to the nurse. “Has there been no break?”
    â€œNone at all, Doctor. Small fluctuations. Nothing that could be called significant.”
    â€œAnd the respiratory difficulty?”
    â€œIt seems to be getting worse.”
    â€œThe medication?”
    â€œIt’s all on the chart, Doctor.”
    â€œYes, I see,” said Tennyson.
    He picked up the woman’s scrawny wrist. The pulse was rapid and shallow. The stethoscope, when he held it against her chest, communicated the rasping of the lungs.
    â€œFood?” he asked. “Has she taken nourishment?”
    â€œOnly the IV the last two days. Before that a little milk and some broth.”
    Tennyson looked across the bed at Ecuyer.
    â€œWell?” asked the Vatican man.
    â€œI think pneumonia,” said Tennyson. “Probably viral. Have you facilities for making tests?”
    â€œWe have a laboratory, but no technician. He was with Anderson and Aldritt.”
    â€œAll three were killed?”
    â€œThat’s right. All three. Perhaps you, Doctor …”
    â€œI do not have the expertise,” said Tennyson. “All I can do is treat the disease. You have medical and pharmaceutical supplies?”
    â€œYes, a wide range of them. Ordinarily, we do not run so thin on medical staff. We did have two technicians, but one resigned several months ago. We’ve not been able to replace him. End of Nothing, Doctor, apparently is not the kind of place that attracts good people.”
    â€œMy best diagnosis,” said Tennyson, “is some type of viral pneumonia. It would help to know the type, but without trained personnel, that’s impossible. There are so many new viruses, picked up and transmitted from planet to planet, that it’s hard to pinpoint one specific agent. Within the past year or two, however—or so I read in medical journals—a new broad-spectrum antiviral substance—”
    â€œYou mean protein-X,” said the nurse.
    â€œExactly. Do you have it?”
    â€œSome came in on the last trip Wayfarer made. The trip before this one.”
    â€œIt could be effective,” Tennyson said to Ecuyer. “Not enough is known about it to be sure. The substance specifically attacks the protein coating of a virus, destroying the entire virus. We’d be taking a chance using it, of course, but we have nothing else.”
    â€œWhat you are saying,” said Ecuyer, “is that you cannot guarantee.…”
    â€œNo physician can make a guarantee.”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Ecuyer. “Somehow or other, we must save her. If we don’t use the