THE GREAT GRAY PLAGUE
BY RAYMOND F. JONES
There is no enemy so hard to fight as a dull gray fog. It's notsolid enough to beat, too indefinite to kill, and too omnipresentto escape.
[Transcribers Note: This etext was produced from Analog Science Fact andScience Fiction February 1962. Extensive research did not uncover anyevidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Dr. William Baker was fifty and didn't mind it a bit. Fifty was atremendously satisfying age. With that exact number of years behind hima man had stature that could be had in no other way. Younger men, whoachieve vast things at, say, thirty-five, are always spoken of withtheir age as a factor. And no matter what the intent of the connection,when a man's accomplishments are linked to the number of years since hewas born there is always a sense of apologia about it.
But when a man is fifty his age is no longer mentioned. His name standsalone on whatever foundation his achievements have provided. He hasstature without apology, if the years have been profitably spent.
William Baker considered his years had been very profitably spent. Hehad achieved the Ph. D. and the D. Sc. degrees in the widely separatedfields of electronics and chemistry. He had been responsible for some ofthe most important radar developments of the World War II period. Andnow he held a post that was the crowning achievement of those years ofstudy and effort.
On this day of his fiftieth birthday he walked briskly along thecorridor of the Bureau building. He paused only when he came to theglass door which was lettered in gold: National Bureau of ScientificDevelopment, Dr. William Baker, Director. He was unable to regard thatdoor without a sense of pride. But he was convinced the pride wasthoroughly justifiable.
He turned the knob and stepped into the office. Then his brisk stridecame to a pause. He closed the door slowly and frowned. The room wasempty. Neither his receptionist nor his secretary, who should have beenvisible in the adjoining room, were at their posts. Through the otheropen door, at his left, he could see that his administrative assistant,Dr. James Pehrson, was not at his desk.
He had always expected his staff to be punctual. In annoyance that tooksome of the glint off this day, he twisted the knob of his own officedoor and strode in.
He stopped just inside the room, and a warm wave of affection welled upwithin him. All nine members of his immediate staff were gathered aroundthe table in the center of his office. On the table was a cake with pinkfrosting. A single golden candle burned brightly in the middle of theinscription: Happy Birthday, Chief.
The staff broke into a frighteningly off-key rendition of "HappyBirthday to You." William Baker smiled fondly, catching the eye of eachof them as they badgered the song to its conclusion.
Afterward, he stood for a moment, aware of the moisture in his own eyes,then said quietly, "Thank you. Thank you very much, Family. This is mostunexpected. None of you will ever know how much I appreciate yourthoughtfulness."
"Don't go away," said Doris Quist, his blond and efficient secretary."There's more. This is from all of us."
He opened the package she offered him. A genuine leather brief case. Ofcourse, the Government didn't approve of gifts like this. If he observedthe rules strictly, he ought to decline the gift, b