‘You know what that means?’ he said seriously.
‘Sure,’ said Manny Friedman, rustling impatiently through a sheaf of pink legal papers. ‘It means the end of civilization as we know it. Now, can we please go over these patents?’
‘It means,’ said Ivor, ‘that they haven’t yet found a way to cure it. If they could cure it, or contain it, they’d say so. But they can’t. You see what the paper says? “Super-plague”. Ordinary plague responds to sulfonamides or Haffkine antiserum, but this one evidently doesn’t.’
‘Ivor,’ interrupted Manny impatiently, ‘today is the most crucial day of all. Can we just concentrate on your bugs, and leave the President’s bugs alone?’
Ivor checked his watch. ‘We’d better get back to court anyway. But I’d sure like to know a little more about this plague. Do you realize – this could be an entirely new disease? Some new strain of bacillus, totally unknown?’
They collected their things together and went out into the humid afternoon street. Manny hailed a cab, and they drove through heavy traffic towards the court house. Ivor, sweating in his dark, too-tight suit, mopped his forehead with a clean handkerchief.
The cab-driver, a big-nosed Czech in a cloth cap and horn-rimmed spectacles, was rapping about the plague.
‘If you ask me,’ he said, swerving imperturbably across three lanes of traffic, ‘if you ask me it’s the Soviets.’
‘How do you make that out?’ asked Ivor. ‘Are you a buddy of Kosygin?’
The cab-driver laughed. ‘You gotta be kidding. If you ask me, the Soviets is responsible for half the troubles this country’s got. They bought our wheat, correct? Well, they bought our wheat so that they could trade good American grain for worthless roubles, right? I mean, what good’s a rouble to anyone? Grain – that’s different. You can offload a loaf of bread any place.’
Ivor grinned. ‘You wouldn’t be Polish by any chance?’ he asked.
‘Am I hell,’ said the cab-driver.
The courtroom, dusty and badly-lit, looked as if a burglar had just rifled it. Sheaves of paper spilled on to the floor, and volume after volume of legal books and evidence, files and clippings lay scattered all over the attorneys’ desks. It was the debris of a four-day hearing.
Ivor Glantz and Manny Friedman pushed open the swing doors and went to their places. Across the court, a thin, blue-suited figure with a gray crewcut, Sergei Forward the Finnish-born bacteriologist, was consulting with his lawyer. He was a calm polite man with a meticulous accent and a way of leaning forward when he spoke, like a near-sighted stork investigating an appetizing grub. He didn’t look up when Glantz and Friedman came in.
By three o’clock, the courtroom was filled. There was a high burble of conversation – more intense than this morning. News of the Florida plague had spread, and every science journal and bacteriological expert in the place was discussing it. To them, it was the hottest medical story in years.
Esmeralda, severe and elegant in a pale pink 1930s suit, her curls tucked into a pink turban hat with a diamond brooch and a feather, came into the courtroom just before the judge. She sat down behind her stepfather, in a heady cloud of Chant d’Arômes, and touched his shoulder.
‘Have you heard about the plague?’ she whispered. ‘Isn’t that awful?’
‘I heard over lunch,’ Ivor whispered back. ‘I’m only guessing, but I’d say it’s even worse than they’re pretending.’
‘The Army have sealed off Pensacola and Mobile,’ said Esmeralda. ‘I just heard it on the car radio. They say that people are dying at the rate of two thousand a day.’
At that moment. Judge Secombe came into the courtroom, and they all stood. When he had sat down and put on his spectacles, Sergei Forward’s attorney raised his hand to make an application.
‘My client respectfully wishes to apply for adjournment, your honor. While he appreciates the serious consequences of this action for infringement of patent, he believes he can make a material contribution to the government research work to find an antidote for the plague that we now hear is threatening our southern states. Mr. Forward is sure that Mr. Glantz will not stand in his way in this crucial emergency, and he hopes that Mr. Glantz will perhaps also wish to join in the government research work.’
Manny Friedman swore under his breath.
‘What does he mean,’ Ivor Glantz asked. ‘He can’t do this.’
Manny Friedman said, ‘He can and he has. Unless you agree to an adjournment, you’re going to look like a self-centered schmuck who puts his own money-making before the good of America. He’s got you, right by the balls.’
Ivor frowned. ‘But why does he want an adjournment? What for?’
Manny shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. Whatever he’s up to, I don’t like it.’
Judge Secombe called for Manny Friedman’s attention. ‘Mr. Friedman,’ he said, ‘does your client have any strong feelings about an adjournment?’
Manny Friedman stood up. ‘My client appreciates Mr. Forward’s devotion to public service, your honor, but does not regard an adjournment necessary. This action can only take one more day at most, and twenty-four hours is hardly likely to make any material difference to Mr. Forward’s research. Perhaps I can remind the bench that most of the great breakthroughs in bacteriology only came after years of intensive labor – including the process claimed by my client under this present action.’
Sergei Forward’s attorney protested. ‘Your honor, we believe that twenty-four hours – even four hours – could be vital. This plague has infected an entire state in a week. People are dying right now, even as we speak.’
Manny Friedman glanced down at Ivor Glantz, who shrugged helplessly. Then he looked at the press table, where reporters from The New York Times, The Daily News and Associated Press sat with their pens poised, eager for any story that would tie up with the plague. He could see the headlines now. ‘No
