The Terrible Fear

: The Blue Germ

On coming down to breakfast, I found Sarakoff already seated at the

table devouring the morning papers. I picked up a discarded one and

stood by the fire, glancing over its contents. There was only one

subject of news, and that was the spread of the Blue Disease. From every

part of the north cases were reported, and in London it had broken out

in several districts.



"So it's all come true," I remarked.
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He nodded, and continued reading. I sauntered to the window. A thin

driving snow was now falling, and the passers-by were hurrying along in

the freezing slush, with collars turned up and heads bowed before the

wind.



"This is an ideal day to spend indoors by the fireside," I observed. "I

think I'll telephone to the hospital and tell Jones to take my work."



Sarakoff raised his eyes, and then his eyebrows.



"So," he said, "the busy man suddenly thinks work a bother. The power of

the germ, Harden, is indeed miraculous."



"Do you think my inclination is due to the germ?"



"Beyond a doubt. You were the most over-conscientious man I ever knew

until this morning."



For some reason I found this observation very interesting. I wished to

discuss it, and I was about to reply when the door opened and my

housemaid announced that Dr. Symington-Tearle was in the hall and would

like an immediate interview.



"Shew him in," I said equably. Symington-Tearle usually had a most

irritating effect upon me, but at the moment I felt totally indifferent

to him. He entered in his customary manner, as if the whole of London

were feverishly awaiting him. I introduced Sarakoff, but

Symington-Tearle hardly noticed him.



"Harden," he exclaimed in his loud dominating tones, "I am convinced

that there is no such thing as this Blue Disease. I believe it all to be

a colossal plant. Some practical joker has introduced a chemical into

the water supply."



"Probably," I murmured, still thinking of Sarakoff's observation.



"I'm going to expose the whole thing in the evening papers; I examined a

case yesterday--a man called Wain--and was convinced there was nothing

wrong with him. He was really pigmented. And what is it but mere

pigmentation?" He passed his hand over his brow and frowned. "Yes, yes,"

he continued, "that's what it is--a colossal joke. We've all been taken

in by it--everyone except me." He sat down by the breakfast table

suddenly and once more passed his hand over his brow.



"What was I saying?" he asked.



Sarakoff and I were now watching him intently.



"That the Blue Disease was a joke," I said.



"Ah, yes--a joke." He looked up at Sarakoff and stared for a moment. "Do

you know," he said, "I believe it really is a joke."



An expression of intense solemnity came over his face, and he sat

motionless gazing in front of him with unblinking eyes. I crossed to

where he sat and peered at his face.



"I thought so," I remarked. "You've got it too."



"Got what?"



"The Blue Disease. I suppose you caught it from Wain, as we did." I

picked up one of his hands and pointed to the faintly-tinted

fingernails. Dr. Symington-Tearle stared at them with an air of such

child-like simplicity and gravity that Sarakoff and I broke into loud

laughter.



The humour of the situation passed with a peculiar suddenness and we

ceased laughing abruptly. I sat down at the table, and for some time the

three of us gazed at one another and said nothing. The spirit-lamp that

heated the silver dish of bacon upon the table spurted at intervals and

I saw Symington-Tearle stare at it in faint surprise.



"Does it sound very loud?" asked Sarakoff at length.



"Extraordinarily loud. And upon my soul your voice nearly deafens me."



"It will pass," I said. "One gets adjusted to the extreme sensitiveness

in a short time. How do you feel?"



"I feel," said Symington-Tearle slowly, "as if I were newly constructed

from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. After a Turkish bath

and twenty minutes' massage I've experienced a little of the feeling."



He stared at Sarakoff, then at me, and finally at the spirit lamp. We

must have presented an odd spectacle. For there we sat, three men who,

under ordinary circumstances, were extremely busy and active, lolling

round the unfinished breakfast table while the hands of the clock

travelled relentlessly onward.



Relentlessly? That was scarcely correct. To me, owing to some mysterious

change that I cannot explain, the clock had ceased to be a tyrannous and

hateful monster. I did not care how fast it went or to what hour it

pointed. Time was no longer precious, any more than the sand of the sea

is precious.



"Aren't you going to have any breakfast?" asked Symington-Tearle.



"I'm not in the least hurry," replied Sarakoff. "I think I'll take a

sip of coffee. Are you hungry, Harden?"



"No. I don't want anything save coffee. But I'm in no hurry."



My housemaid entered and announced that the gentleman who had been

waiting in Dr. Symington-Tearle's car, and was now in the hall, wished

to know if the doctor would be long.



"Oh, that is a patient of mine," said Symington-Tearle, "ask him to come

in."



A large, stout, red-faced gentleman entered, wrapped in a thick frieze

motor coat. He nodded to us briefly.



"Sorry to interrupt," he said, "but time's getting on, Tearle. My

consultation with Sir Peverly Salt was for half past nine, if you

remember. It's that now."



"Oh, there's plenty of time," said Tearle. "Sit down, Ballard. It's nice

and warm in here."



"It may be nice and warm," replied Mr. Ballard loudly, "but I don't want

to keep Sir Peverly waiting."



"I don't see why you shouldn't keep him waiting," said Tearle. "In fact

I really don't see why you should go to him at all."



Mr. Ballard stared for a moment. Then his eyes travelled round the table

and dwelt first on Sarakoff and then on me. I suppose something in our

manner rather baffled him, but outwardly he shewed no sign of it.



"I don't quite follow you," he said, fixing his gaze upon Tearle again.

"If you recollect, you advised me strongly four days ago to consult Sir

Peverly Salt about the condition of my heart, and you impressed upon me

that his opinion was the best that was obtainable. You rang him up and

an appointment was fixed for this morning at half-past nine, and I was

told to call on you shortly after nine."



He paused, and once more his eyes dwelt in turn upon each of us. They

returned to Tearle. "It is now twenty-five minutes to ten," he said. His

face had become redder, and his voice louder. "And I understood that Sir

Peverly is a very busy man."



"He certainly is busy," said Tearle. "He's far too busy. It is very

interesting to think that business is only necessary in so far----"



"Look here," said Mr. Ballard violently. "I'm a man with a short temper.

I'm hanged if I'll stand this nonsense. What the devil do you think

you're all doing? Are you playing a joke on me?"



He glared round at us, and then he made a sudden movement towards the

table. In a moment we were all on our feet. I felt an acute terror seize

me, and without waiting to see what happened, I flung open the door that

led into my consulting room, darted to the further door, across the hall

and up to my bedroom.



There was a cry and a rush of feet across the hall. Mr. Ballard's voice

rang out stormily. A door slammed, and then another door, and then all

was silent.



I became aware of a movement behind me, and looking round sharply, I saw

my housemaid Lottie staring at me in amazement. She had been engaged in

making the bed.



"Whatever is the matter, sir?" she asked.



"Hush!" I whispered. "There's a dangerous man downstairs."



I turned the key in the lock, listened for a moment, and then tip-toed

my way across the floor to a chair. My limbs were shaking. It is

difficult to describe the intensity of my terror. There was a cold

sweat on my forehead. "He might have killed me. Think of that!"



Her eyes were fixed on me.



"Oh, sir, you do look bad," she exclaimed. "Whatever has happened to

you?" She came nearer and gazed into my eyes. "They're all blue, sir. It

must be that disease you've got."



A sudden irritation flashed over me. "Don't stare at me like that.

You'll have it yourself to-morrow," I shouted. "The whole of the blessed

city will have it." A loud rap at the door interrupted me. I jumped up,

darted across the room and threw myself under the bed. "Don't let anyone

in," I whispered. The rap was repeated. Sarakoff's voice sounded

without.



"Let me in. It's all right. He's gone. The front door is bolted." I

crawled out and unlocked the door. Sarakoff, looking rather pale, was

standing in the passage. He carried a poker. "Symington-Tearle's in the

coal-cellar," he announced. "He won't come out."



I wiped my brow with a handkerchief.



"Good heavens, Sarakoff," I exclaimed, "this kind of thing will lead to

endless trouble. I had no idea the terror would be so uncontrollable."



"I'm glad you feel it as I do," said the Russian. "When you threatened

me with a pair of scissors this morning I felt mad with fear."



"It's awful," I murmured. "We can't be too careful." We began to descend

the stairs. "Sarakoff, you remember I told you about that dead sailor? I

see now why that expression was on his face. It was the terror that he

felt."



"Extraordinary!" he muttered. "He couldn't have known. It must have been

instinctive."



"Instincts are like that," I said. "I don't suppose an animal knows

anything about death, or even thinks of it, yet it behaves from the very

first as if it knew. It's odd."



A door opened at the far end of the hall, and Symington-Tearle emerged.

There was a patch of coal-dust on his forehead. His hair, usually so

flat and smooth that it seemed like a brass mirror, was now disordered.



"Has he gone?" he enquired hoarsely.



We nodded. I pointed to the chain on the door.



"It's bolted," I said. "Come into the study."



I led the way into the room. Tearle walked to the window, then to a

chair, and finally took up a position before the fire.



"This is extraordinary!" he exclaimed.



"What do you make of it?" I asked.



"I can make nothing of it. What's the matter with me? I never felt

anything like that terror that came over me when Ballard approached me."



Sarakoff took out a large handkerchief and passed it across his face.

"It's only the fear of physical violence," he said. "That's the only

weak spot. Fear was formerly distributed over a wide variety of

possibilities, but now it's all concentrated in one direction."



"Why?" Tearle stared at me questioningly.



"Because the germ is in us," I said. "We're immortal."



"Immortal?"



Sarakoff threw out his hands, and flung back his head. "Immortals!"



I crossed to my writing-table, and picked up a heavy volume.



"Here is the first edition of Buckwell Pink's System of Medicine. This

book was produced at immense cost and labour, and it is to be published

next week. When that book is published no one will buy it."



"Why not?" demanded Tearle. "I wrote an article in it myself."



"So did I," was my reply. "But that won't make any difference. No member

of the medical profession will be interested in it."



"Not interested? I can't believe that. It contains all the recent work."



"The medical profession will not be interested in it for a very simple

reason. The medical profession will have ceased to exist."



A look of amazement came to Tearle's face. I tapped the volume and

continued.



"You are wrong in thinking it contains all the recent work. It does not.

The last and greatest achievement of medical science is not recorded in

these pages. It is only recorded in ourselves. For that blue

pigmentation in your eyes and fingers is due to the Sarakoff-Harden

bacillus which closes once and for all the chapter of medicine."



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