Destroyer of Worlds by E. C. Tubb

the wise old saying? One man’s meat is another’s poison? Gus Easton may be a good musician to you but to me he’s a —’
    ‘Careful, Ted!’ she warned with mock ferocity. ‘You’re talking of the man I could have loved. But I know what you mean. To be honest I borrowed the recording because I thought you might like it. Now I’ve found we have yet another thing in common. Well, what else can we do? I know! Take me to the observation room. I’ve heard the view now is fantastic. Is it true that Doctor Allard first described the central body as a brain?’
    ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t in Mission Control at the time.’
    ‘Well, it is. Nurse Ryder told me. She’s seen it. A brain, Ted. Think of it. A planet-sized brain.’
    ‘Or something which just happens to resemble one,’ he corrected. ‘A walnut looks the same only much smaller. That’s why the Romans used to think it good for headaches and such. The similarity of appearance made them think the two were connected in some way.’ He sighed, wistfully, ‘Medicine in those days was simple.’
    ‘Hit and miss, Ted. If it worked you did it again. Now we know exactly what we’re doing and why.’
    ‘Do we?’ His shrug was expressive. ‘I wish I could be as sure.’
    She caught his tone, recognising its seriousness, and immediately became the true professional she was. The time for informality had passed.
    ‘There is something wrong! What is it, Doctor?’
    ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps nothing more than a contaminated culture. I’ve been checking blood corpuscles and noted something strange. Then I checked out a culture of bacteria, X238 — a harmless but essential component of the lower bowel.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Probably nothing. It could even be fatigue. In any case I’ll have to check again. If you could prepare two cultures for me, nurse?’
    ‘X238?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Both on agar?’
    She moved away as he nodded and, alone, he turned again to the microscope. Lost in the magnified world of sub-cultures he didn’t hear Claire approach him. Only when she rested her hand on his shoulder did he lift his head.
    ‘What? Oh, Doctor Allard!’
    ‘Did I startle you?’
    ‘No — I wasn’t expecting you. How is Brian?’
    ‘He’ll be alright.’ Brian Shaw was one of those who had recently injured himself. ‘Some superficial bruising, minor contusions but the fractured ribs we suspected turned out to be little more than hair-line breaks.’ Claire glanced at the notes Bain had made. ‘Blood-checks, Ted?’
    ‘A routine count. I’m a little concerned about Guthrie. He isn’t recovering as he should and I suspect a lowered red-cell count.’
    ‘Guthrie?’ Claire frowned. ‘He was discharged as fit before we hit the barrier. Before —’ She swallowed then forced herself to continue, ‘Before Ivan Gogol collapsed.’
    ‘Yes.’ Bain removed the slide from the instrument and selected another. ‘You remember how concerned we were at Gordon Kent’s prolonged hospitalisation. His wound seemed reluctant to heal. Well, I’ve been doing some research on the problem, no answer as yet and maybe there never will be, but I did bump into something odd when I tested out Guthrie’s blood. He was injured about the same time and suffered the same superficial conditions. Well — look at this.’
    He stepped aside as Claire stooped over the microscope. For a long moment she examined the slide.
    ‘And?’
    ‘Now examine this.’
    ‘A comparison?’
    She turned at his nod and again became engrossed in her study of the illuminated picture beneath the lenses. Without speaking she selected other slides then looked at his notes.
    ‘You made other tests, Ted?’
    ‘On X238 — they check out.’ He drew in his breath and held it for a moment before releasing it in an audible sigh. ‘I’m having fresh cultures made, of course, but I’m afraid the picture is clear.’
    Claire looked at him; a skilled man, an experienced physician and a master of pathology.