“I suppose it could happen that way,” Horn said.
Doc said, “Why go to all that trouble? Why wouldn’t they just hatch there in the brain where there’s plenty of food?”
“Once these things start eating at it, the brain and the brain’s owner are not going to last very long. Survival of the parasites requires that they find a new source of food or perish.”
“Ergo, the exploding face,” Doc said.
For a long moment the three men were silent, staring down at the violated corpse. Finally, Corey said, “How come all this hasn’t been published?”
“There’s been pressure to keep it quiet.”
“Pressure from where?”
“I don’t know, but from high enough to clamp a lid on the whole department. But we can forget about that now. After this latest batch it won’t matter if the pressure comes from God; the story’s going to come out. Your paper’s already touched on it, so I figured you might as well get it first. Besides, I owed Doc a favor.”
“Consider it paid in full, pal,” said Ingersoll.
“Want to watch me open up the rest of her?” Horn said.
“No, thanks,” Corey said quickly. “We’ve got work to do.”
As they rode up in the elevator from the chilly basement, Doc said, “If Dexter Horn is right, we could all be into some real heavy trouble with this. What do you think?”
“I think,” Corey said, “that we’ve just been handed the greatest headline you ever saw.”
“Headline?”
Corey held up both hands, framing the invisible banner headline. “Just picture it, Doc: Attack of the Brain Eaters!”
Chapter 18
The headline that appeared in the Thursday edition of the Herald read: SCIENCE BAFFLED BY BRAIN EATERS. The impact was everything Corey Macklin had hoped for. The story was picked up by AP and UPI with full name credit to Corey. The news departments of all three television networks were trying to reach him before the ink was dry.
A major publisher offered a generous advance on a book. Corey declined. Agents from both coasts were suddenly eager to represent him. Corey refused to take their calls. Celebrities, crackpots, government officials, and just plain folks jammed the telephone lines to the Herald. Everybody wanted to talk to Corey Macklin, but Corey was not talking. Not yet.
Wednesday night, when they had returned to the office from St. Bartholomew’s, Corey had offered to share the by-line on the brain eaters story with Doc Ingersoll. “After all,” he said, “it was your connection that got us into the autopsy. And most of the medical input comes from you.”
Doc had fallen into a coughing spasm and come out of it shaking his head. He slapped his pockets until he found a fresh pack of Camels, stuck one in his mouth, and lit it.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m happy with things as they are. It feels good to be involved in a real story again, and I’ll stick with it as long as you want me to. But you can leave my name off of it. I don’t want to be famous. And that’s what you’re going to be, buddy, like it or not.”
“I think I’ll like it,” Corey said.
Doc squinted at him through the smoke of a freshly lit Camel. “Maybe.”
Doc Ingersoll proved to be a prophet. After the early Thursday edition of the Milwaukee Herald and the wire-service pickups of his story, Corey Macklin became at least semifamous. And if his name was not yet in the Woodward-Bernstein category, his coinage was rapidly becoming a household term. Health officials tried hard to come up with another, less threatening name for the deadly parasites, but it was “brain eaters” that caught the public imagination.
There were the inevitable jokes — Hear about the Polish brain eater that starved to death? — but they did not last long once the seriousness of the situation became known.
During the taping of his show Thursday afternoon, Johnny Carson included a reference to brain eaters in his monologue. Actually, the mention came during an ad-lib exchange with Ed McMahon. By the time the show was aired that night, reports of the latest wave of seizures were coming in from all over the country. Switchboards at NBC were inundated with protesting calls, and the network was forced to insert an editorial apology into the show. For the later broadcast to the West Coast, the offending exchange was bleeped out.
NBC’s was not the only switchboard jammed with incoming calls on Thursday. Telephone lines into the Milwaukee Herald were blown out as the number of callers wanting to speak to Corey Macklin overloaded the circuits. To his own surprise, Corey was suddenly recognized as the “authority” on the brain eaters. While the phone company worked to unsnarl the lines, Corey, along with City Editor Porter Uhlander, was isolated above the furor in the rarely used top-floor office of Nathan Eichorn.
The diminutive publisher was not his usual dapper self. There was a scuff on one of his lizard-skin boots, the collar of his shirt was wilted, and there was a patch of whiskers on his jaw that the razor had missed. He pulled his tie loose and unbuttoned the collar as he paced to and fro on the thick office carpeting.
While he paced, Eichorn kept his eyes on a television set that was built into the wall. On the screen a network anchorman was talking to field reporters in various cities around the nation. The volume was turned down to a murmur, but the on-screen activity had an air of great urgency. The network news people had that look of somber elation they reserve for the reporting of disasters.
Porter Uhlander stood next to the window and followed Eichorn with his eyes, avoiding the events on the television screen. The city editor looked as though at any moment he might throw himself through the double pane of safety glass to the concrete twelve stories down.
Corey Macklin was the calmest of the three in the room. He stood with his arms folded, leaning against the publisher’s desk while he tried to catch his name from the turned-down sound of the television set.
Every few steps Nathan Eichorn would stop his pacing, turn from the television screen, and glare in turn at Uhlander and Corey. He would mutter “Brain eaters” under his breath, shake his head, and resume his travels. Finally, he planted himself in front of the city editor, glared up at the taller man, and said in tightly controlled tones, “Brain eaters. How in the name of all journalism did you let that abomination get into our headline?”
“I didn’t know,” Uhlander admitted. “It wasn’t cleared through me.”
“I’m responsible,” Corey said. “I got the story late yesterday and had to go straight to composing with it. The headline was my idea.”
Eichorn turned and regarded him sadly. “Brain eaters. Not only did you insist on following this story despite everything I said; you stick a head on it that belongs in the National Enquirer. Balls.”
“Mr. Eichorn, I didn’t create the story. It was happening whether I wrote it or not.” Corey could not resist a small grin. “As for ‘Brain Eaters,’ it sold papers. We couldn’t keep them on the streets.”
“Why not. If you put ‘fuck’ in a headline, it would sell papers, too.” Eichorn dropped into the tall chair behind his polished mahogany desk as though he were suddenly exhausted. He frowned at a smudge on one shirt cuff, then licked the ball of his thumb and rubbed at it. “Did you know there are maybe a hundred people downstairs looking for you? That’s not counting all the crazies trying to get through on the telephone.”
“Looking for me, you say?” Corey found it impossible to hide his pleasure completely.
“Yes. Most of them seem to expect you to tell them how to escape the brain eaters.”