Science Fiction - Daily Short Stories

The Coffin Cure - Alan E Nourse

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Duration:: 31m
Broadcast on:: 13 Sep 2024
Audio Format:: mp3

"This iHeart Radio Station is brought to you by Vitamin Water." Did you know a 2018 study showed half of prenatal vitamins tested had unacceptable levels of heavy metals? I'm Kat, mother of three and founder of Ritual. When I was four months pregnant, I couldn't find a prenatal I could trust, so I created my own. Ours is matraceable, third-party tested for heavy metals, and recently earned the Purity Award from the Clean Label Project. But don't just take my word for it, get 25% off at virtual.com/podcast. The Coffin Cure by Alan Edward Norse When the discovery was announced, it was Dr. Chauncey Patrick Coffin who announced it. He had, of course, a range with uncanny skill to take most of the credit for himself. If it turned out to be greater than he had hoped, so much the better. His presentation was scheduled for the last night of the American College of Clinical Practitioners Annual Meeting, and Coffin had fully intended it to be a bombshell. It was. Its explosion exceeded even Dr. Coffin's wilder expectations, which took quite a bit of doing. In the end, he had waited through more newspaper reporters than medical doctors, as he left the hall that night. It was a heady evening for Chauncey Patrick Coffin, N.D. Certain others were not so delighted with Coffin's bombshell. "It's idiocy," young Dr. Philip Dawson wailed in the laboratory conference room the next morning. "Blind screaming idiocy. You've gone out of your mind, that's all there is to it. Can't you see what you've done? Aside from selling your colleagues down the river, that is?" He clinched the reprint of Coffin's address in his hand and brain just it like a broad sword. "Report on a vaccine for the treatment and cure of the common cold" by C.P. Coffin, et al. That's what it says, et al. My idea in the first place. "Jack and I both pounding our heads on the wall for eight solid months. And now you sneaking into publication a full year before we have any business publishing a word about it." "Really, Philip?" Dr. Chauncey Coffin ran a pudgy hand through his snowy hair. "How ungrateful. I thought for sure you'd be delighted. An excellent presentation, I must say. Terz, succinct, unequivocal." He raised his hand. "But generously unequivocal," you understand. "You should have heard the ovation. It nearly went wild. In the look on Underwood's face, worth waiting twenty years for." "And the reporters," snapped Philip, "don't forget the reporters. He whirled on a small dark man sitting quietly in the corner. How 'bout that, Jake? Did you see the morning papers?" This thief not only steals our work, he splashes it all over the countryside in Red Ink. "Dr. Jacob Miles coughed apologetically. What Philip to so stormed up about is the prematurity of it all," he said to Coffin. "After all, we've hardly had an acceptable period of clinical trial." "Nonsense," said Coffin, Gloria Philip. "Underwood and his men were ready to publish their discovery within another six weeks. Where would we be then? How it's clinical testing do you want? Philip, you had the worst cold of your life when you took the vaccine. Have you had any scents?" "No, of course not," said Philip, peevishly. "Jacob, how about you? Any sniffles?" "Oh, no. No colds." "Well, what about those six hundred students from the university? Did I misread the reports on them?" "No. Ninety-eight percent cured of active symptoms within twenty-four hours. Not a single recurrence. The results were just short of miraculous." Jake hesitated. "Of course. It's only been a month." "Month, year, century. Look at them. Six hundred of the world's most luxuriant colds, and now I'm not even a sniffle." The chubby doctor sank down behind his desk, his ready-faced beaming. "Come now, gentlemen. Be reasonable. Think positively. There's work to be done. A great deal of work." "They'll be wanting me in Washington, I imagine. Press conference in twenty minutes. Drug houses to consult with. How dare we stand in the path of progress. We've won the greatest medical triumph of all times. The conquering of the common cold. We'll go down in history." And he was perfectly right on one point, at least. They did go down in history. The public response to the vaccine was little less than monumental. Of all the ailments at a torment in mankind through history and none was ever more universal, more tenacious, more uniformly miserable than the common cold, it was a respecter of no barriers, boundaries or classes. Ambassadors and chambermaids sniffled and sneezed and drippy nose-unamity. The powers and the Kremlin sniffed and blew and wept genuine tears on drafty days, while senatorial debates on earth-shaking issues paused revetly upon the unplugging of a nose, the clearing of a rhinoretic throat. Other illnesses brought disability, even death in their wake. The common cold merely brought torment to the millions as it implacably resisted the most superhuman of efforts to curb it. Until that chill rainy November day when the tidings broke to the world and four-inch banner headlines, coffin nails lid on common cold. No more coffin states co-finder of cure. Sniffle sniped, single-shot to say sneezers. In medical circles it was called the coffin multi-centric upper respiratory virus-inhibiting vaccine. But the papers could never stand for such high-sounding names, and called it simply, the coffin cure. Below the banner heads, world-renowned feature writers expounded in reverent terms the story of the Leviathan struggle Dr. Chauncey Patrick Coffin, et al., in solving this riddle of the ages. How, after years of failure, they ultimately succeeded in culturing the causative agent of the common cold, identifying it not as a single virus or group of viruses, but as a multi-centric virus complex invading the soft mucous linings of the nose, throat, and eyes. Capable of altering its basic molecular structure at any time to resist efforts of the body from within, or the physician from without, to attack and dispel it. How the hypothesis was set forth by Dr. Philip Dawson that the virus could be destroyed only by an antibody which could freeze the virus complex in one form long enough for normal body defenses to dispose of the offending invader. The exhausting search for such a crippling agent. And the final crowning success after injecting untold gallons of coal-virus material into the hides of a group of cooperative and forbearing dogs. A species which never suffered from colds and hints endured the whole business with an air of affection at boredom. And finally, the testing. First, Coffin himself, who was suffering a particularly horrendous case of the affliction he sought to cure, then his assistants Philip Dawson and Jacob Miles, then a multitude of students from the university, carefully chosen for the severity of their symptoms, the longevity of their colds, their tendency to acquire them on little or no provocation, and their utter inability to get rid of them with any known medical program. They were a sorry spectacle, those students filing through the Coffin Laboratory for three days in October, wheezing like steam shovels, snorting and sneezing and sniffling and blowing, sniffing and squeaking, mute appeals glowing in their bloodshot eyes. The researchers dispensed the materials, a single shot in the right arm, a sensitivity control in the left. With growing delight they watched as the results came in, the sneezing stopped, the sniffling ceased. A great silence settled over the campus, in the classrooms, in the library, in classic halls. Dr. Coffin's voice returned, rather to the regret of his fellow workers, and he began bouncing about the laboratory like a small boy at a fair. Students by the dozen trumped in for checkups with noses dry and eyes bright. In a matter of days there was no doubt left that the goal had been reached. But we have to be sure, Philip Dawson had cried cautiously. This was only a pilot test. We need mass testing now on an entire community. We should go to the west coast and run studies there. They have a different breed of cold out there, I hear. We'll have to see how long the immunity lasts. Make sure there are no unexpected side effects. And muttering to himself, he fell to work with Pat and Pencil, calculating the program to be undertaken before publication. But there were rumors. Under what at Stanford they said had already completed his test and was preparing a paper for publication in a matter of months. Surely with such dramatic results on the pilot test something could be put into print. It would be tragic to lose the race for the sake of a little unnecessary caution. Peter Dawson was adamant, but he was a voice crying in the wilderness. Chauncey Patrick Coffin was boss. Within a week even Coffin was wondering if he had bitten off just a trifle too much. They had expected that the man for the vaccine would be great. But even the grizzly memory of early days of the Salk vaccine had not prepared them for the mobs of sneezing, wheezing red-eyed people, bombarding them for the first fruits. Clear-eyed young men from the government bureau pushed through crowds of local townspeople, lining the streets outside the Coffin Laboratory, standing in pouring rain to raise insistent placards. 17 pharmaceutical houses descended like vultures with production plans, cost estimates, colorful graphs demonstrating proposed yield and distribution programs. Coffin was flown to Washington, where conferences labored far into the night as demands pounded their doors like a tidal wave. One laboratory promised the vaccine in 10 days, another set a week. The first actually appeared in three weeks in two days. To be soaked up in the space of three hours by the thirsty sponge of cold, weary humanity. These plans were dispatched to Europe, to Asia, to Africa, with the precious cargo. A million needles pierced a million hides, and with a huge, convulsive sneeze mankind stepped forth into a new era. There were of standards, of course. There always are. "It doesn't make any difference how much you talk," Eddie Dawson cried, horsley shaking her blonde curls. "I don't want any cold shots." "You're being totally unreasonable," Phillips said, glowering at his wife and annoyance. It wasn't the sweet young thing he had married, not this evening. Her eyes were puffy, her nose red and dripping. "You've had this cold for two solid months now, and there just isn't any sense to it. It's making you miserable. You can't eat, you can't breathe, you can't sleep." "I don't want any cold shots," she repeated stubbornly. "But why not? Just one little needle, you'd hardly feel it." "But I don't like needles," she cried bursting into tears. "Why don't you leave me alone? Don't take your dusty old needles and stick them into people who want them." "Oh, Ellie." "I don't care, I don't like needles," she wailed, bearing her face in his shirt. He held her close, making comforting little noises. It was no use, he reflected, sadly. Science just wasn't Ellie's long suit. She didn't know a cold vaccine from a case of smallpox, and no appeal to logic or common sense could surmount her irrational fear of hypodermics. "All right, nobody's going to make you do anything you don't want to do," he said. "And anyway, think of the poor tissue manufacturers," she sniffled, wiping her nose with a pink facial tissue. "All their little children starving to death." "Say, you have got a cold," said Philip sniffing. "You've got on enough perfume to fellin' ox." He wiped away tears and grinned at her. "Come on now, fix your face. Dinner at the driftwood? I hear they have marvelous lamb chops." It was a mellow evening. The lamb chops were delectable. The tastiest lamb chops he had ever eaten, he thought, even being blessed with as good a cook as Ellie for a spouse. Ellie dripped in blue continuously, but refused to go home until they had taken in a movie and stopped by to dance a while. "I hardly ever get to see you anymore," she said. "Oh, because of that dusty beddancing you're giving people." It was true, of course, the work at the lab was endless. They danced, became home early, nevertheless. Philip needed all the sleep he could get. He woke once during the night to a parade of sneezes from his wife, and rolled over frowning sleepily to himself. It was ignominious in a way, his own wife refusing the fruit of all those months of work. And cold or no cold, she surely was using a wail of a lot of perfume. He awoke suddenly, began to stretch, and set bolt upright in bed, staring wildly about the room. Pale morning sunlight drifted in the window. Downstairs he heard Ellie stirring in the kitchen. For a moment he thought he was suffocating. He leaped out of bed, stared at the vanity table across the room. Somebody spilled the whole damn bottle. The heavy, sick, sweet miasma hung like a cloud around him, drenching the room. With every breath it grew thicker. He searched the table top frantically, but there were no empty bottles. His head began to spin from the sickening effolvium. He blinked in confusion, his hand trembling as he lit a cigarette. No need to panic, he thought. She probably knocked the bottle over when she was dressing. He took a deep puff and burst into a proxysm of coughing as accurate fumes burned down his throat to his lungs. "Ellie," he rushed into the hall, still coughing. The match smelly given way to the harsh cost-extension of burning weeds. He stared at a cigarette and a whore and threw it into the sink. The smell grew worse. He threw up in the hall closet expecting smoke to come billowing out. "Ellie, somebody's burning down the house. Whatever are you talking about," Ellie's voice came from the stairwell. "It's just the toast I burned, silly." He rushed down the stairs two at a time, and nearly gagged as he reached the bottom. The smell of hot rancid grease struck him like a solid wall. It was intermingled with an oily smell of boiled and parboiled coffee, overpowering in its intensity. By the time he reached the kitchen he was holding his nose, tears pouring from his eyes. "Ellie, what are you doing in here?" She stared at him. "I'm baking breakfast." "But don't you smell it?" "Smell what," said Ellie. On the stove the automatic percolator was making small, promising noises. In the frying pan four sunny side eggs were sizzling, half a dozen strips of bacon drained on a paper towel on the sideboard. It couldn't have looked more innocent. Cautiously Philip released his nose, sniffed. The stench nearly choked him. "Do you mean you don't smell anything strange?" "I didn't smell anything, period," said Ellie defensively. "The coffee, the bacon. Come here a minute." She reeked, of bacon, of coffee, of burnt toast, but mostly of perfume. "Did you put on any fresh perfume this morning? Before breakfast? Don't be ridiculous." "Not even a drop," Philip was turning very white. "Not a drop." He shook his head. "Now wait a minute. This must all be in my mind. I'm just imagining things. That's all. Working too hard. Historical reaction. In a minute it'll all go away." He poured a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar. But he couldn't get it close enough to taste it. It smelled as if it had been boiling three weeks in a rancid pot. It was a smell of coffee, all right, but a smell that was fiendishly distorted, overpoweringly and nauseatingly magnified. It pervaded the room and burned his throat and brought tears gushing to his eyes. Slowly, realization began to dawn. He spilled the coffee as he set the cup down. "The perfume, the coffee, the cigarette. My hat," he choked, "get me my hat. I've got to get to the laboratory." It got worse all the way downtown. He fought down waves of nausea as the smell of damp running earth rose from his front yard and a gray cloud. The neighbor's dog dashed out to greet him, exuding the great-grandfather of all doggy odors. As Philip away- "This iHeart radio station is brought to you by vitamin water." "This iHeart radio station is brought to you by vitamin water." He said, "This iHeart radio station is brought to you by vitamin water." For the bus, every passing car fell the air with noxious fumes gagging him, doubling him up with coughing as he dabbed his streaming eyes. Nobody else seemed to notice anything wrong at all. The bus ride was a nightmare. It was a damp rainy day. The inside of the bus smelled like the men's locker-room after a big game. A bleary-eyed man with a three-day stubble and his chin flopped down on the seat next to him. And Philip reeled back with a jolt to the job he had held in his student days, cleaning vats in the brewery. "It's a great morning," bleary eyes breathed at him. "Huh, Doc?" Philip blanched. On top of it, the man had had a breakfast of salami. In the seat ahead, a fat man held a dead cigar clamped in his mouth like a rank growth. Philip's stomach began rolling. He sank his face into his hand trying unobtrusively to clamp his nostrils. With a groan of deliverance he lurched off the bus at the laboratory gate. He met Jake Miles coming up the steps. Jake looked pale, too pale. "Morning," Philip said weekly, "nice day. Looks like the sun might come through." "Yeah," said Jake, "nice day." "You feel all right this morning?" "Fine, fine," Philip tossed his head in the closet, opened the incubator and his culture tubes trying to look busy. He slammed the door after one whiff and gripped the edge of the work-table with whitened knuckles. "Why?" "Oh, nothing. Thought you looked a little peeked, was all." They stared at each other in silence. Then, as though by signal, their eyes turned to the office at the end of the lab. "Coughing coming yet?" Jake nodded. "He's in there. He's got the door locked. I think he's going to have to open it," said Philip. A gray-faced Dr. Coffin unlocked the door, backed quickly towards the wall. The room reeked of kitchen deodorant. "Stay right where you are," Coffin squeaked. "Don't come a step closer. I can't see you now. I'm... I'm busy. I've got work that has to be done." "You're telling me," grooved Philip. He motioned Jake into the office and locked the door carefully. Then he turned to Coffin. When did it start for you? Coffin was trembling. Right after supper last night, I thought I was going to suffocate, got up and walked the streets all night. My God, what a stench. Jake? Dr. Miles shook his head. "Sometimes this morning, I don't know when. I woke up with it." "That's when it hit me," said Philip. "But I don't understand," Coffin howled. Nobody else seems to notice anything. "Yet," said Philip, "we were the first three to take the Coffin care, remember? You, me and Jake, two months ago." Coffin's forehead was beaded with sweat. He stared at the two men in growing horror. "But what about the others?" he whispered. "I think," said Philip, "that we'd better find something spectacular to do in a mighty big hurry. That's what I think." Jake Miles said, "The most important thing right now is security. We mustn't let a word get out, not until we're absolutely certain." "But what's happened?" Coffin cried. "Those foul smells everywhere. You, Philip. You had a cigarette this morning. I could smell it clear over here, and it's bringing tears to my eyes. And if I didn't know better, I'd swear neither of you had had a bath in a week. Every odor in town is suddenly turned foul." "Magnified, you mean," said Jake, "perfume still smells sweet. There's just too much of it. The same was cinnamon. I tried it. Cried for half an hour. But it still smelled like cinnamon." "No, I don't think the smells have changed any." "But what, then?" Our noses have changed, obviously. Jake paced the floor an excitement. "Look at our dogs. They've never had colds and they practically live by their noses. Other animals, all dependent on their scent of smell for survival. And none of them ever have anything even vaguely reminiscent of a common cold. The multisentric virus hits primates only, and it reaches its fullest parasitic powers in man alone." Coffin shook his head miserably, "But why this awful stench all of a sudden? I haven't had a cold in weeks." "Of course not. That's just what I'm trying to say," Jake cried. "Look, why do we have any sense of smell at all? Because we have tiny olfactory nerve endings buried in the mucus membrane of our noses and throats. But we have always had the virus living there, too, colds or no colds throughout our entire lifetime. It's always been there, anchored in the same cells, parasitizing the same sensitive tissues that carry out olfactory nerve endings, numbing them and crippling them, making them practically useless as sensory organs. So wonder we never smelled anything before. Those poor little nerve endings never had a chance. Until we came along in our shining armor and destroyed the virus," said Philip. "Oh, we didn't destroy it. We merely stripped it of every slippery protective mechanism against normal body defensive. Jake perched on the edge of a desk, his dark face intense. These two months since we had our shots have witnessed a battle to the death between our bodies and the virus. With the help of the vaccine our bodies have won, that's all. Anyway the last vestiges of an invader that has been almost a part of our normal physiology since the beginning of time. And now, for the first time, those crippled little nerve endings are just beginning to function. "God, help us, cough and groan. You think it'll get worse?" "And worse, and still worse," said Jake. "I wonder," said Philip slowly, "what the anthropologists will say. What do you mean?" "Maybe it was just a single mutation somewhere back there. Just a tiny change of cell structure and metabolism that left one line of primates vulnerable to an invader no other would harbor. Why else would man have begun to flower and blossom it till actually, grow to depend so much on his brain instead of his brawn that he could rise above all others? What better reason than because somewhere along the line in the world of fang and claw, he suddenly lost his sense of smell. They stared at each other. "Well, he's got it back again now," cough and wailed, "and he's not going to like it a bit." "No, he surely isn't," Jake agreed. "He's going to start looking very quickly for someone to blame, I think." They both looked at Coffin. "Now, don't be ridiculous, boys," said Coffin, turning white. "We're all in this together. Philip, it was your idea in the first place. You said so yourself. You can't leave me now," the telephone jangled. They heard the frightened voice of the secretary clear across the room. "Dr. Coffin, there was a student on the line just a moment ago. He said he was coming up to see you. Now," he said. "Not later." "I'm busy," Coffin sputtered, "I can't see anyone, and I can't take any calls." "But he's already on his way up," the girl burst out. "You were saying something about tearing you apart with his bare hands?" Coffin slammed down the receiver. His face was the color of lead. "They'll crucify me," he sob. "Jake, Philip, you've got to help me." Philip sighed and unlocked the door. Send the girl down to the freezer and have her bring up all the live coal virus she can find. Get us some inoculated monkeys and a few dozen dogs. He turned to Coffin, and stopped sniveling. "You're the big publicity man around here. You're going to handle the screaming masses whether you like it or not. But what are you going to do?" "I haven't the faintest idea," said Philip, "but whatever I do is going to cause you your shirt. We're going to find out how to catch cold again if we have to die." It was an admirable struggle, and a futile one. They sprayed their noses and throats with enough pure culture of virulent live virus to have condemned an ordinary man to a lifetime of sneezing, watery-eyed misery. They didn't develop a sniffle among them. They mixed six different strains of virus and gargled the extract, spraying themselves and every inoculated monkey they could get their hands on with the vial smelling stuff. Not a sneeze. They injected it hypodermically, interdermanally, subcutaneously, intramuscularly, and intravenously. They drank it. They bathed in the stuff. But they didn't catch cold. "Maybe it's the wrong approach," Jake said one morning. Our body defenses are keyed up to the top performance right now. Maybe if we break them down we can get somewhere. They plunged down that alley with grim abandon. They starved themselves. They forced themselves to stay awake for days on end until exhaustion forced their eyes closed in spite of all they could do. They carefully devised vitamin-free, protein-free, mineral-free diets that tasted like library paste and smelled worse. They wore wet clothes and sopping shoes to work, turned off the heat, and threw windows open to the raw weather air. Then they resprayed themselves with the live cold virus and waited reverently for the sneezing to begin. It didn't. They stared at each other and gather in gloom. They'd never felt better in their lives. Except for the smells of course. They had hoped that they might presently get used to them. They didn't. Every day it grew a little worse. They began smelling smells they never dreamed existed. Noxious smells, cloying smells, smells that drove them gagging to the sinks. Their nose plugs were rapidly losing their effectiveness. Meal times were nightmarish or deals, they lost weight with alarming speed. But they didn't catch cold. "I think you should all be locked up," Ellie Dawson said severely as she dragged her husband blue-faced and shivering out of an icy shower one bitter morning. "You've lost your wits. You need to be protected against yourselves. That's what you need." "You don't understand," Philip moaned, "we've got to catch cold." "Why?" Ellie snapped angrily. "Suppose you don't. What's going to happen?" "We had three hundred students march on the laboratory today," Philip said patiently. "The smells were driving them crazy," they said. They couldn't even bear to be close to their best friends. They wanted something done about it, or else they wanted blood. "Tomorrow we'll have them back in three hundred more." "And they were just the pilot study. What's going to happen when fifteen million people find their noses going bad on them?" He shuddered. "Have you seen the papers? People are already going around sniffing like bloodhounds. And now we're finding out what a thorough job we did. We can't crack it, Ellie. We can't even get a toehold. Those antibodies are just doing too good a job." "Well, maybe you can find some uncle-bodies to take care of them," Ellie offered vaguely. "Look, don't make bad jokes. I'm not making jokes. All I want is a husband back who doesn't complain about how everything smells and eats the dinners I cook. And doesn't stand around in cold showers at six in the morning." "I know it's miserable," he said helplessly, "but I don't know how to stop it." He found Jake and Coffin in tight-lipped conference when he reached the lab. "I can't do it anymore," Coffin was saying. "I beg them for time. I've threatened them. I promise them everything but my upper plate. I can't face them again. I just can't." "We only have a few days left," Jake said grimly. "If we don't come up with something, we're goners." Phillip's jaw suddenly sagged as he stared at them. "You know what I think?" he said suddenly. "I think we've been prized idiots. We've gotten so rattled we haven't used our heads. All the time it's been sitting there blinking at us." "What are you talking about?" snapped Jake. "Uncle bodies," said Phillip. "Oh, great God." "No. I'm serious." Phillip's eyes were very bright. "How many of those students do you think you can corral to help us?" Coffin gulped. "600. They're out there on the street right now, howling for a lynching." "All right. I want them in here. And I want some monkeys, monkeys with colds, the worse colds the better." "Do you have any idea what you're doing?" asked Jake. "None in the least," said Phillip happily, "except that it's never been done before. But maybe it's time we tried following our noses for a while." The tidal wave began to break two days later. Only a few people hear, a dozen there, but enough to confirm the diarist newspaper predictions. The boomerang was completing its circle. At the laboratory the doors were kept barred, the telephone disconnected. Within there was a bustle of feverish, if odorous activity. For the three researchers, the olfactory acuity had reached agonizing proportions. Even the small gas mask Phillip had devised could no longer shield him from the constant barrage of violent odors. But the work went on in spite of the smell. Dark loads of monkeys arrived at the lab, cold-ridden monkeys, sneezing, coughing, weeping, wheezing monkeys by the dozen. Culture trays bulged with tubes, overflowed the incubators and worktables. Each day 600 angry students sprayed it through the lab, arms exposed, mouths open, grumbling, but cooperating. At the end of the first week, half the monkeys were cured of their colds and were quite unable to catch them back. The other half had new colds and couldn't get rid of them. Phillip observed this fact with a grim satisfaction, and went about the laboratory mumbling to himself. Two days later he burst forth jubilantly, lugging a sad-looking puppy under his arm. It was like no other puppy in the world. This puppy was sneezing and sniffling with a perfect howler of a cold. The day came when they injected a tiny droplet of milky fluid beneath the skin of Phillip's arm, and then got the virus spray and gave his nose and throat a liberal application. Then they sat back and waited. They were still waiting three days later. "It was a great idea," Jake said gloomily, flipping a bulging notebook closed with finality. "It just didn't work, was all." Phillip nodded, both men had grown thin with pouches under their eyes. Jake's right eye began to twitch uncontrollably whenever anybody came within three yards of him. "We can't go on like this, you know. The people are going wild. Where's coffin?" He collapsed three days ago, nervous prostration. He kept having dreams about hangings. Phillip sighed. "Well, I suppose we'd better just face it. Nice knowing you, Jake. Pity it had to be this way." It was a great trial, man. A great try. "Ah, yes. Nothing like going down in a blaze of..." Phillip stopped dead, his eyes widening. His nose began to twitch. He took a gasp, a larger gasp, as a long dead reflex came sleepily to life, shook its head, reared back. Phillip sneezed. He sneezed for ten minutes without a pause until he lay on the floor blue-faced and gasping for air. He caught a hold of Jake, ringing his hand as tears gushed from his eyes. He gave his nose an enormous blow, and had it shakily for the telephone. "It was a simple enough principle," he said later to Ellie as she spread mustard on his chest and poured more warm water into his foot bath. The cure itself depended upon it. The agitated antibody reaction. We had the antibody against the virus all right. What we had to find was some kind of antibody against the antibody. He sneezed violently, and poured in nose drops with a happy grin. "Will they be able to make it fast enough?" "Just about fast enough for people to get good and eager to catch cold again," said Phillip. "There's only one little hitch." Ellie Dawson took the steaks from the grill and set them still sizzling on the dinner-table. "Hitch?" Phillip nodded as he chewed the steak with a pretense of enthusiasm. It tasted like slightly damp k-rashing. "This stuff we've made does a real good job. Just a little too good." He wiped his nose and reached for a fresh tissue. "I may be wrong, but I think I've got this cold for keeps," he said sadly. "Unless I can find an antibody against the antibody, against the antibody. End of The Coffee Cure by Alan Edward Norris." "This iHeart Radio Station is brought to you by Vitamin Water." We wear our work. Day by day, stitch by stitch. At Dickies, we believe work is what we're made of. So whether you're gearing up for a new project, or looking to add some tried and true workware to your collection, remember that Dickies has been standing the test of time for a reason. The workware isn't just about looking good. It's about performing under pressure and lasting through the toughest jobs. Head over to Dickies.com and use the promo code Workware20 at checkout to save 20% on your purchase. It's the perfect time to experience the quality and reliability that has made Dickies a trusted name for over a century.