Fiddlehead

Gideon instinctively balked at his friend’s suggestion. “No, we don’t need … we shouldn’t have … No.”

“Why not?” asked the editor.

“Because the machine … There was an explosion,” he said vaguely. “The information is not reproducible at present, and the original paperwork is in safekeeping at the Lincoln estate. Attempts have already been made on my life, and there is some concern for the Lincolns’, as well.”

But the editor said, “If I understand what I’m reading, there’s concern for the whole damn continent. I understand your desire to protect the Lincolns, but isn’t getting the evidence out more important in this case? If you’re serious about this—”

“What do you mean, if?” Gideon asked, a

Wellers also went on the defensive. “Are you trying to say you don’t believe us?”

Sherwood Jones sighed and shook his head. “The awful thing is, I do believe you. Or, if nothing else, I think you’re on to something. It might not be such a big something; perhaps this is just another one of those things like typhoid or cholera or consumption that is making the rounds through the ranks these days. But I’m hearing about it more and more. Everybody’s hearing about it. We’re already ru

“I read the most recent one,” Wellers said. “You talked to a colleague of mine—or, your reporter did, at any rate—wanting to know the medical details of the situation. Not all newspapers are so precise with their facts.”

“Dr. Harper, yes. Might’ve known he was a friend of yours. See, we get letters and telegrams all the time from people asking what we know about it and if we’ll do a more in-depth investigation. I’m aware of the scope and I’d love to do another exposé, but I lost a reporter to the project this past fall. He went to the front and didn’t come back. The fellow I sent after him said everyone gave a different version of how he’d died, and he didn’t know who to believe.”

Gideon frowned. “Why would anyone lie about such a thing? It’s a public menace! I don’t understand how people can just … bury their heads in the sand, and pray it’ll all blow over.”

But the editor shook his head. “It’s not that simple. People are afraid, yes—and the people who are closest to the situation don’t want to frighten anyone further.”

“Leaving people unprepared and uninformed is better?” Gideon asked incredulously.

“How would they prepare for something like this? If we tell people that the walking dead are coming, and we don’t know why but there’s nothing we can do about it, it would only spread panic.”

Nelson Wellers tried to see it both ways. “I understand what you’re saying. It’s true that there’s no preventative or cure yet. But it’s as Gideon said: Silence will not protect us. The plague is spread through a substance, and death also travels by direct contact with the victims. If nothing else, we can warn people to stay clear of the infected. At present, they’re being treated like patients, often mixed in with a hospital’s general population. We are reaching a time when we must consider them enemy adversaries, and segregate them instead.”

“But this letter…” Jones gazed down at it nervously—but not despondently, or so Gideon thought. A gleam in the older man’s eye said that he sensed some glimmer of possibility, but was torn. “You’re brushing up against that truth, but don’t state it outright. This letter could change everything. Or, if it is believed by enough people in enough places, it could lead to mass hysteria.”

“Then let it,” Gideon said coldly. “I’d rather see hysteria than ignorance. Hysteria, at least, has motive and agency.”

“Blind motive. Blind agency,” the editor corrected. “There are ethical guidelines about this sort of thing, for language that incites violence.” Gideon leaned forward to interrupt, but Jones held up his hand, begging indulgence. “Which is why I will print this, but on one condition: Wellers, you must write me a companion piece. Write me a letter as a doctor, explaining what we know, little as it may be. We must give the people a plan, or else we are only seeding terror, and I won’t have that.”

“A plan? Jones, it’s as I said—”

“Say it again. Write it down.” He pushed a pen across his desk, and followed it with a few sheets of paper from his top desk drawer. “If all you can give are your qualifications and your suggestion to avoid the infected, then that’s a start. Warn people against the bites. Give them some hope that this can be managed. To do otherwise would be cruel and unhelpful.”

Gideon was not entirely happy, but he found it difficult to argue with that. “Cruelty can be effective. For the world’s own good, we must frighten it awake.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. But we won’t scare the city awake just to witness its own slaughter. Most people would rather die fighting than screaming.”

“It’s fine, Gideon. I’ll do it,” Wellers said, picking up the pen. “I’ll write it, and he’ll run it, and the word will get out. Just give me a few minutes. It won’t take longer than that, for I have little to contribute to the effort.”

As Wellers wrote, scratching the pen’s quill across the page and pausing occasionally to refresh its ink, Sherwood Jones positively quivered, giving the lie to his former reserve. To Gideon, he said, “This is the break we’ve needed—an educated assessment that ties the facts together. For years we’ve heard rumors about what the saffron does to people, but its extent has been difficult to calculate. And here, in this office, when such things are discussed … well, the press is free, but some people think you get what you pay for.”

“What do you mean?” Wellers murmured, without looking up from his letter.

“I’m saying that this needs to come from men of science, not men of words. A man of words can say anything, and mean nothing. But a doctor must do good, or at least do no harm. I’m ill qualified to do either one.”

On their way out of the editor’s office, Gideon felt something like optimism for the first time since the Fiddlehead had been attacked. It crept up on him, and he even smiled as Jones stomped happily off to the press.

“You think it’ll work? You really think he’ll run it?” Gideon asked Wellers.

“Is that a rhetorical question? I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you ask one of those. Didn’t you once say that such queries were a pox upon serious conversation?”

“Do you ever forget anything?”

“About as often as you do,” Wellers said with a cocky lift of his eyebrow. “But don’t worry about Sherwood holding up his end of the bargain. He’ll print it, and people will read it, and then they’ll know. Of course, what they do with the information is up to them.”

Gideon watched the editor disappear around the corner. “Douglass believes that educated people are powerful people. Let’s hope he’s right.”

“And let’s hope we’re stopping a war, not starting a riot.”

“Wellers? Is that you?” asked a voice from beside the front desk, where a receptionist in a prim uniform directed incoming visitors. A young man leaned over her, sorting through a stack of telegram slips. He gri

“Bardsley,” Gideon supplied.

“Bardsley, that’s right. My apologies.” He riffled through the papers, selected a couple, and approached them.

“Hello there, Timothy,” Wellers greeted him. “Still ru

“That I am, doctor. That I am. And you two gentlemen can help shorten my workday, if you’re feeling so disposed and the stars align correctly. Is there any chance you’re headed over to the Lincoln estate?”

“As soon as we leave here,” Wellers said. Gideon wanted to argue, but he didn’t have a better destination in mind, so he didn’t.