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 biologists 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.
It’s 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?”