Bradbury, Ray - SSC 13 Read Online Free PDF Page B

Rockwell.
"Get the hypos," he said.
                   Rockwell got the hypos, thinking. Now, maybe after
all, Smith was a superman. His blood. That super-blood. Its ability to kill
germs. His heartbeat. His breathing. Maybe Smith was a superman and didn't know
it. Yes. Yes, maybe—
                   Rockwell drew blood from Smith and slid it
under a microscope. His shoulders sagged. It was normal blood. When you dropped
germs into it the germs took a normal length of time to die. The blood was no
longer super germicidal. The x-liquid, too, was gone. Rockwell sighed
miserably. Smith's temperature was normal. So was his pulse. His sensory and
nervous system responded according to rule.
                   "Well, that takes care of that,"
said Rockwell, softly.
                   Hartley sank into a chair, eyes widened,
holding his head between bony fingers. He exhaled. "I'm sorry. I guess my—mind—it
just imagined things. The months were so long. Night after night. I got
obsessed, and afraid. I've made a fool out of myself. I'm sorry. I'm
sorry." He stared at his green fingers. "But what about myself?"
                   Smith said, "I recovered. You'll recover,
too, I guess. I can sympathize with you. But it wasn't bad ... I don't really
recall anything."
                   Hartley relaxed. "But—yes I guess you're
right. I don't like the idea of my body getting hard, but it can't be helped.
I'll be all right."
                   Rockwell was sick. The tremendous letdown was
too much for him. The intense drive, the eagerness, the hunger and curiosity,
the fire, had all sunk within him.
                   So this was the man from the chrysalis? The
same man who had gone m. All this waiting and wondering for nothing.
                   He gulped a breath of air, tried to steady his
innermost, racing thoughts. Turmoil. This pink-cheeked, fresh-voiced man who
sat before him smoking calmly, was no more than a man who had suffered some
partial skin petrification, and whose glands had gone wild from radiation, but,
nevertheless, just a man now and nothing more. Rockwell's mind, his
overimaginative, fantastic mind had seized upon each facet of the illness and
built it into a perfect organism of wishful thinking. Rockwell was deeply
shocked, deeply stirred and disappointed.
                   The question of Smith's living without food,
his pure blood, low temperature, and the other evidences of superiority were
now fragments of a strange illness. An illness and nothing more. Something that
was over, down and gone and left nothing behind but brittle scraps on a sunlit
tabletop. There'd be a chance to watch Hartley now, if his illness progressed,
and report the new sickness to the medical world.
                   But Rockwell didn't care about illness. He
cared about perfection. And that perfection had been split and ripped and torn
and it was gone. His dream^ was gone. His supercreature was gone. He didn't
care if the whole world went hard, green, brittle-mad now.
                   Smith was shaking hands all around. "I'd
better get back to Los Angeles. Important work for me to do at the plant. I
have my old job waiting for me. Sorry I can't stay on. You understand."
                   "You should stay on and rest a few days,
at least," said Rockwell. He hated to see the last wisp of his dream
vanish.
                   "No thanks. I'll drop by your office in a
week or so for another checkup, though. Doctor, if you like? I'll drop in every
few weeks for the next year or so so you can check me, yes?"
                   "Yes. Yes,'smith. Do that, will you please?
I'd like to talk your illness over with you. You're lucky to be alive."
                   McGuire said, happily, "I'll drive you to
L.A."
                   “Don't bother. I’ll walk to Tujunga and get a
cab. I want