Josephson stalked out through the hissing double doors.
Moses took the stand. This was the last argument to be heard—no more recesses—no appeals. The bad gases waited—ions, heavy metals and toxic radicals. He raised his staff and glanced upwards chanting—
“I came to Dundas to free my people—after a thousand years in their cold prisons. I have freed them from their diseases. Their tumors are gone. Bring them to me that I may lead them out of this accursed place.”
Nothing happened. His ravings were recorded as just that—ravings of a madman—a mass murderer. He shook his staff at the big eye of Court.
“I call on heaven as my witness—”
White snow appeared on viewscreens all over the globe. Court felt an electromagnetic disturbance that made his circuits uneasy.
“My people—where are they? I have freed them from their infirmities. You cannot lock them back in your icy prison. Bring them to me.”
Court sent out for an analysis of the EM disturbance. Tecks scurried about in a thousand shaft caps—observing violent auroras. Transmissions to Agromecks and Huntercraft were erratic.
“Solar flares—two days ago?” acknowledged Court. Obviously the pyrotechnics of the prisoner—both verbal and celestial—raised some doubts in the minds of the jury. Premature voting now favored exculpation.
“Excuse me,” said Court. “I know it is out of order, but may I ask your permission to call the Oncologist to confirm or deny your claim of cure?”
Moses smiled condescendingly: “If the proof from the heavens is not enough—bring on your physical scientists. The cures are there if you have the eyes to see.”
Countless millions leaned toward their viewscreens.
The Oncologist, an elderly Bioteck specializing in cancer, nodded. Moses was correct. Many of the patients were now free from tumor and could not be resuspended.
“Many?” asked Court. “How many?”
The Oncologist twisted his pointer nervously. A large demonstration screen beside him lit up. He glanced at the figures. They were still coming in as the white teams continued their work at the caves.
“Nearly a quarter of a million, so far.”
During the hubbub that followed, Court contacted Dundas directly—confirming the statement.
“Court is interested in a scientific explanation,” ordered the cyberjurist.
The Oncologist cleared his throat.
“Of course we can never be certain that every single tumor cell has been destroyed, but our scanning equipment is very good at picking up masses of cells. The scan you see on this screen is a normal—colors indicate levels of metabolic activity, or cell membrane heat. We call it the membranogram. Active tissue is hotter—note the bright red heart, rose gut and skeletal muscle, pink liver and kidneys, yellow brain and black bones and fat. Here’s another normal—and another. Note the similarity. Homogeneous colors. Sparks of contraction. Now here is a patient with cancer. The membranogram picks up a coarse hot nodule. This is a lung tumor. Cancer cells are busier—hotter—higher metabolic rate. Tumors use more oxygen and calories. Heat shows up on scan. This next view is the same patient taken nine months later. The tumor is larger and has a black center—the so-called doughnut sign—the center is dead, necrotic—cavitated. Notice the little seeds spreading down the lymphatic channels—metastases to nodes, liver, brain and other organs. As the body’s defenses weaken, tumor spread accelerates. After the usual attempts at palliation with antimitotics, we try to suspend the patients while there is some residual life. Dundas contained many such cases.”
The Oncologist paused. Time lapse repeated the growth and spread of the tumor. The doughnut sign appeared again.
“Moses Eppendorff has cured some of these?” asked Court.
“Apparently,” said the Oncologist. “This view with the doughnut sign was one of our bronchogenic carcinomas. Cerebral metastases were present. A hopeless case. Now—this picture is a new scan taken today. No hot areas. No tumors by our tests.”
The Big ES felt the startled gasp of citizen viewers.
“A cure?”
“Presumably, yes.”
Restless masses of Nebishes exclaimed: “A miracle! A new prophet has arisen at Dundas. Free Eppendorff. Free Eppendorff.”
Cybercity scanners recorded the unrest.
“Court still awaits a scientific explanation.”
“Pyrotherapy,” explained the Oncologist. “The heat doubled the metabolic rate for each seven-degree rise. Tumor tissue has more active respiratory enzymes to start with. It is more vulnerable to heat—mitochondria burn out. This has been known since before Olga. Ancients used hot sitz baths to cure pelvic tumors. Fever therapy was used for all manner of neoplasm. It is a risky treatment—note the mortality rate of the Eppendorff episode. The results have always been about the same—a third cured, a third killed, and a third left with their tumors. It is this high mortality rate that has taken pyrotherapy out of our current armamentarium—we suspend, awaiting a safer cure.”
Court ruminated on the math. A third killed—a third cured. Net result—more vacant spaces and some extra protein. The statistics balanced. Megajury exonerated Moses and Simple Willie. Cultists from all over the planet revised their plans. The name of Eppendorff went into the ESbook.
Court found itself with a new problem—the final disposition of a quarter of a million humans—mostly five-toeds. Many were elderly and weak. They all spoke different dialects from past centuries. None would survive long at the present population density—even if there were quarters and calories available—and there were none. Surplus infants were already being chucked down the chute at close to a 100 per cent rate in many shaft cities. Squeezing in one extra citizen was impossible without depriving another citizen of his QCB. Moses watched the viewscreen—thousands of the newly awakened patients were milling around the caves of Dundas waiting for boats to the mainland. Old, weak, five-toeds—about to get their first look at the hive of Big ES. Had he really done them a service in awakening them?
“Where are my children? Let me lead them out,” shouted Moses.
“Outside?” mumbled Court.
“I rewarmed them. Let me take care of them,” shouted Moses. “The heavens are on our side. We need no help from the hive.”
Big ES shuddered again. Nebishes cheered in their little cubicles. Hunters worried. Magnetic storms brought Huntercraft back to their garage refuge.
Hugh Konte was jostled along with the other patients by parallel rows of Security guards carrying quarterstaffs. He marched in stoic silence. His Edna was no longer with him. Memory was poor for the years prior to suspension, and he was no longer sure of when he had lost her. He remembered her youth and vigor—her love. He rubbed his neck. The hard nodule was gone. So were the other symptoms of his terminal illness—yellow skin, red stools, and a growing bubble of fullness in his belly. His cancer had vanished. Only itching tender areas remained where proliferating fibroblasts replaced necrotic tumor.
The world had changed while he slept. He didn’t understand all the ugly quarterstaffs—and he didn’t like being ushered around without an explanation. He counted the guard—biding his time.
Young Val sat in Hunter Control watching the Dundas Incident on the screen. Fat Walter wheezed about his console making notes in his ESbook. Catamarans plied the gray, icy waters of upper Baffin Bay—ferrying patients to the flat frozen bedrock of the mainland. They crowded together between the misty algae domes—ragged, leaderless and lost.
“There must be a million of them,” exclaimed Val, flicking from channel to channel getting different views of the fugitive band. Big ES was putting them Outside.
Walter glanced nervously at Val.