"Malachite," Nance breathed. "One kind of copper ore. They reduced it, extracted some of the pure metal. See all the little reddish specks shining? It is pretty well established that the process is something like electroplating. There's a dissolving acid—then a weak electric current—from a kind of battery... Oh, nobody should laugh, Frank—Dr. Pacetti keeps pointing out that there are electric eels on Earth, with specialized muscle-tissue that acts as an electric cell... But this is somewhat different. Don't ask me exactly how it functions—I only heard our orientation lecture, while we toured this museum. But see those small compartments in the thick shells of the pod—with the membranes separating them? All of them contained fluids—some acid, others alkaline. Mixed in with the cellulose of the membranes, you can see both silvery and reddish specks—as if they had to incorporate both a conductor and a difference of metals to get a current. At least, that was what was suggested in the lecture..."
Frank Nelsen and Nance Codiss moved on from display case to display case, each of which showed another kind of pod cut in half. The interiors were all different and all complicated... Membranes with a faint, metallic sheen—laminated or separated by narrow air spaces as in a capacitor, for instance... Balls of massed fibre, glinting... Curious, spiral formations of waxy tissue...
"They use electricity as a minor kind of defense," Nance went on, her tone still low with suppressed excitement that was close to dread. "We know that some of them can give you a shock—if you're fool enough to get so close that you can touch them. And they do emit radio impulses on certain wavelengths. Signals—communication...? As for the rest, perhaps you'd better do your own guessing, Frank. But the difference between us and them seems to be that we make our apparatus. They grow them, build them—with their own living tissue cells—in a way that must be under their constant, precise control. I suppose they even work from a carefully thought-out design—a kind of cryptic blueprint... Go along with the idea—or not—as you choose. But our experts suspect that much of what we have here represents research apparatus—physical, [p. 126] chemical, electrical. That they may get closer to understanding the ultimate structure of matter than we can, because their equipment is part of themselves, in which they can develop senses that we don't possess... Well, I'll skip any more of that. Because the best—or the worst—is still coming. Right here, Frank..."
The case showed several small, urn-like growths, sectioned like the other specimens.
Frank Nelsen grinned slightly. "All right—let me tell it," he said. "Because this is something I really paid attention to! Like you imply, their equipment is alive. So they work best with life—viruses, germs, vegetable-allergy substances. These are their inventing, developing and brewing bottles—for the numerous strains of Syrtis Fever virus. The living molecule chains split off from the inner tissue walls of the bottles, and grow and multiply in the free fluid. At least, that's how I read it."
"And that is where my lab job begins, Frank," she told him. "Helping develop anti-virus shots—testing them on bits of human tissue, growing in a culture bath. An even partially effective anti-virus isn't found easily. And when it is, another virus strain will soon appear, and the doctors have to start over... Oh, the need isn't as great, any more, as when the Great Rush away from Mars was on. There are only half a dozen really sick people in the hospital now. Late comers and snoopers who got careless or curious. You've got to remember that the virus blows off the thickets like invisible vapor. There's one guy from Idaho—Jimmy—James Scanlon. Come along. I'll show you, Frank..."
He lay behind plastic glass, in a small cubicle. A red rash, with the pattern of frostwork on a Minnesota windowpane in January, was across his lean, handsome face. Maybe he was twenty—Nance's age. His bloodshot eyes stared at terrors that no one else could see.
Nance called softly through the thin infection barrier. "Jimmy!"
He moaned a little. "Francy..."
"High fever, Frank," Nance whispered. "Typical Syrtis. He wants to be home—with his girl. I guess you know that nostalgia—yearning terribly for old, familiar surroundings—is a major symptom. It's like a command from them—to get out of Mars. The red rash is something extra he picked up. An allergy... Oh, we think he'll survive. Half of them now do. He's big and strong. Right now, even the nurses don't go in there, except in costumes that are as infection-tight as armor. Later on, when the fever dwindles to chronic intermittence, it will no longer be contagious. Even so, the new laws on Earth [p. 127] won't let him return there for a year. I don't know whether such laws are fair or not. We've got a hundred here, who were sick, and are now stranded and waiting, working at small jobs. Others have gone to the Belt—which seems terrible for someone not quite well. I hope that Jimmy bears up all right—he's such a kid... Let's get out of here..."