Paul warily climbed inside. Mendelhaus opened a slide and spoke through it from the front seat. "You'll have to show us the way."
"Straight out Broadway. Say, where did you get the gas-oline for this wagon?"
The priest paused. "That has been something of a secret, Oh well… I'll tell you. There's a tanker out in the harbor. The people left town too quickly to think of it. Automobiles are scarcer than fuel in Galveston. Up north, you find them stalled everywhere. But since Galveston didn't have any through-traffic, there were no cars running out of gas, The ones we have are the ones that were left in the repair shop, something wrong with them. And we don't have any mechanics to fix them."
Paul neglected to mention that he was qualified for the job. The priest might get ideas. He fell into gloomy silence as the ambulance turned onto Broadway and headed down-island. He watched the back of the priests heads, silhouetted against the headlighted pavement. They seemed not at all concerned about their disease. Mendelhaus was a slender man, with a blond crew cut and rather bushy eyebrows. He had a thin, aristocratic face-now plague-gray-but jovial enough. It might be the face of an ascetic, but for the quick blue eyes that seemed full of lively interest rather than inward-turning mysticism, Williamson, on the other hand, was a rather plain man, with a stolid tweedy look, despite his black cassock.
"What do you think of our plan here?" asked Father Mendelhaus.
"What plan?" Paul grunted.
"Oh, didn't the boy tell you? We're trying to make the island a refuge for hypers who are willing to sublimate their craving and turn their attentions toward reconstruction. We're also trying to make an objective study of this neural condition, We have some good scientific minds, too-Doctor Relmone of Fordham, Father Seyes of Notre Dame, two bi-ologists from Boston College…"
"Dermies trying to cure the plague?" Paul gasped.
Mendelhaus laughed merrily. "I didn't say cure it, son. I said 'study it.'"
"Why?"
"To learn how to live with it, of course. Itrs been pointed out by our philosophers that things become evil only through human misuse. Morphine, for instance, is a product of the
Creator; it is therefore good when properly used for relief of pain. When mistreated by an addict, it becomes a monster. We bear this in mind as we study neuroderm."
Paul snorted contemptuously. "Leprosy is evil, I suppose, because Man mistreated bacteria?"
The priest laughed again. "You've got me there. I'm no philosopher. But you can't compare neuroderm with leprosy,"
Paul shuddered. "The hell I can't! It's worse."
"Ah? Suppose you tell me what makes it worse? List the symptoms for me."
Paul hesitated, listing them mentally. They were: discoloration of the skin, low fever, hallucinations, and the insane craving to infect others. They seemed bad enough, so he listed them orally. "Of course, people don't die of it," he added. "But which is worse, insanity or death?"
The priest turned to smile back at him through the porthole. "Would you call me insane? It's true that victims have frequently lost their minds. But that's not a direct result of neuroderm. Tell me, how would you feel if everyone screamed and ran when they saw you coming, or hunted you down like a criminal? How long would your sanity last?"
Paul said nothing. Perhaps the anathema was a contributing factor-
"Unless you were of very sound mind to begin with, you probably couldn't endure it."
"But the craving… and the hallucinations…"
"True," murmured the priest thoughtfully. "The hallucinations. Tell me something else, if all the world was blind save one man, wouldn't the world be inclined to call that man's sight a hallucination? And the man with eyes might even come to agree with the world,"
Again Paul was silent. There was no arguing with Men-delhaus, who probably suffered the strange delusions and thought them real.
"And the craving," the priest went on. "It's true that the craving can be a rather unpleasant symptom. It's the condition's way of perpetuating itself. Although we're not certain how it works, it seems able to stimulate erotic sensations in the hands. We do know the microorganisms get to the brain, but we're not yet sure what they do there."
"What facts have you discovered?" Paul asked cautiously.
Mendelhaus grinned at him. "Tut! I'm not going to tell you, because I don't want to be called a 'crazy dermie.' You wouldn't believe me, you see."
Paul glanced outside and saw that they were approaching the vicinity of the fishing cottage, He pointed out the lamplit window to the driver, and the ambulance turned onto a side road. Soon they were parked behind the shanty. The priests scrambled out and carried the stretcher toward the light, while Paul skulked to a safer distance and sat down in the grass to watch. When Willie was safe in the vehicle, he meant to walk back to the bridge, swim across the gap, and return to the mainland.
Soon Mendelhaus came out and walked toward him with a solemn stride, although Paul was sitting quietly in the deepest shadow-invisible, he had thought. He arose quickly as the priest approached. Anxiety tightened his throat, "Is she… is Willie…?"
"She's irrational," Mendelhaus murmured sadly. "Almost…, less than sane. Some of it may be due to high fever, but…"
"Yes?"
"She tried to kill herself. With a knife. Said something about buckshot being the best way, or something…"
"Jeezis! Jeezis!" Paul sank weakly in the grass and covered his face with his hands,
"Blessed be His Holy Name," murmured the priest by way of turning the oath aside. "She didn't hurt herself badly, though. Wrist's cut a little. She was too weak to do a real job of it, Father Will's giving her a hypo and a tetanus shot and some sulfa. We're out of penicillin."
He stopped speaking and watched Paul's wretchedness for a moment, "You love the girl, don't you?"
Paul stiffened. "Are you crazy? Love a little tramp dermie? Jeezis…,"
"Blessed be-"
"Listen! Will she be all right? I'm getting out of here!" He climbed unsteadily to his feet,
"I don't know, son, infection's the real threat, and shock. If we'd got to her sooner, she'd have been safer. And if she was in the ultimate stage of neuroderm, it would help."
"Why?"
"Oh, various reasons. You'll learn, someday. But listen, you look exhausted. Why don't you come back to the hospital with us? The third floor is entirely vacant. There's no danger of infection up there, and we keep a sterile room ready just in case we get a nonhyper case. You can lock the door inside, if you want to, but it wouldn't be necessary. Nuns are on the floor below. Our male staff lives in the basement. There aren't any laymen in the building. I'll guarantee that you won't be bothered."
"No, I've got to go," he growled, then softened his voice: "I appreciate it though, Father "
"Whatever you wish. I'm sorry, though. You might be able to provide yourself with some kind of transportation if you waited."
"Uh-uh! I don't mind telling you, your island makes me jumpy."
"Why?"
Paul glanced at the priest's gray hands, "Well… you still feel the craving, don't you?"
Mendelhaus touched his nose. "Cotton plugs, with a little camphor. I can't smell you." He hesitated. "No, I won't lie to you. The urge to touch is still there to some extent."
"And in a moment of weakness, somebody might-"
The priest straightened his shoulders. His eyes went chilly. "I have taken certain vows, young man. Sometimes when I see a beautiful woman, I feel desire. When I see a man eating a thick steak on a fast-day, I feel envy and hunger. When I see a doctor earning large fees, I chafe under the vow of poverty. But by denying desire's demands, one learns to make desire useful in other ways. Sublimation, some call it. A priest can use it and do more useful work thereby. I am a priest."
He nodded curtly, turned on his heel and strode away. Halfway to the cottage, he paused. "She's calling for someone named Paul. Know who it might be? Family perhaps?"