Evan quietly dismissed the Panel and gave the Nun a grateful smile.
"Thank you, Sister. May the Heavenly Father bless you."
The middle-aged Nun nodded, her gaze warm and kind.
Evan turned away from the stall, his mind racing.
He was beginning to understand what Hill had meant: people were the foundation of the Beyonder.
He looked at the compassionate Nun, the sallow faces lined up for medicine, and the unfamiliar symbol engraved on the bottom of the bottle. One thing was certain.
Something sinister was hiding behind all this.
They were giving vast numbers of Mortals medicine containing Beyonder Characteristics?
And it was something that gradually robbed them of pain and slowly turned their bodies to copper?
What were they testing?
What were they trying to turn these poor people into?
Evan sighed inwardly, then looked down at the black medicine bottle in his hand.
Still, I have to admit, the Church's workshop doesn't skimp on the dosage.
The pain relief is far stronger than Aspirin.
After taking the Copper Pill, the abdominal cramps caused by his Demon Hunter Characteristic had eased considerably. Even the dull ache from the two bruises on his back had faded by more than half.
It was as if an invisible weight had lifted from him. Even breathing came easier.
For an ordinary person, taking this stuff is slow suicide. But I have the Panel. I can monitor my condition in real time.
Taking a little now and then shouldn't be a problem. It might even improve my tolerance for pain.
I should come back for more free medicine.
Lane had taken his pill too.
His reaction was far more dramatic than Evan's.
Less than a minute after swallowing it, he looked as though someone had hauled him up from underwater. He gulped down breath after breath.
An unnatural flush appeared on his sallow face.
"Heavenly Father above, I really do feel much better!"
His voice shook, not with pain, but with excitement.
For someone who had been struggling at death's door, even temporary relief from pain felt like a miracle.
The Nun smiled at him, her voice gentle but certain.
"Medicine alone won't cure your condition."
"When you have time, you can visit our Church on East Riston Street."
"We have many treatment options that could help you."
At last seeing a glimmer of hope, Lane burst into tears. His knees buckled, and he nearly dropped to the floor as he poured out fervent thanks.
He was so overwhelmed that he thanked the Heavenly Father, the Nun, and his mother all in the same breath.
Evan stood beside him without a word.
At the current level of medicine, no drug could cure Lane's illness.
As for surgery? Penicillin had yet to be invented, and doctors still relied on pressure and cauterizing irons to stop bleeding.
Liver and gallbladder surgery had a survival rate of only around thirty percent, and it cost more than ordinary people dared to imagine.
All Lane had to cling to was that bottle of Copper Pills.
And those pills would make his death a little more comfortable.
The two left the Nun's stall and stopped by the stairs.
"How do you feel, Arkham?" Lane was clearly in better spirits. There was strength in his voice again.
Evan smiled. "It really doesn't hurt as much."
"Where are you headed next?"
Evan sighed. "I'll keep looking for drug trials. What about you?"
Lane's eyes dimmed for a moment, then brightened again.
"I can't manage heavy work anymore. I'll look for something light to do with my hands. Sewing on buttons, gluing paper boxes, that sort of thing."
He gripped the little black medicine bottle. A fragile, stubborn hope burned in his eyes.
"With the Church helping me, I'm sure I can get through this."
He lowered his head. When he spoke again, his voice was so soft it seemed meant only for himself.
"I'm going to earn some money and buy Lisa a birthday present."
"Then I'll buy my mother new glasses. The old pair has a crack in it, and she's been holding it together with tape."
Evan nodded.
"Good luck, Lane."
They parted at the stairs.
Lane headed out, his steps lighter than before. His thin, frail figure soon vanished into the crowd.
Evan turned and climbed the stairs.
The Third Floor stairwell was crowded with battered chairs and benches, where all sorts of people sat waiting.
There were ragged vagrants dozing in the corners, reeking of alcohol and the sour stench of bodies left unwashed for too long.
There were students like Evan, nervously clutching appointment slips.
There were Harbor workers with their sleeves rolled up, exposing thick forearms as they waited to sell blood for a few Coins.
Not many of them had come for treatment.
Most were there to sell blood.
Evan reached the Third Floor entrance and pushed the door open.
The hall was packed.
The place was far from well kept. Great patches of plaster had fallen from the walls, exposing dingy gray brick beneath.
Dark green mold crept through the corners. A water stain on the ceiling resembled a twisted human face.
Scratches and stains covered the floor. The rubber tubes used for drawing blood had turned black and stiff.
Some hung from iron hooks on the wall. Others had simply been tossed onto the worktables.
It was less a clinic than a blood-drawing factory.
Evan went to the front desk. "Nurse, I made an appointment with Doctor Yuri last week. Is there any drug trial work?"
The nurse at the desk looked to be in her early thirties. Freckled and built like a Harbor worker, she had arms thicker than Evan's thighs.
Without looking up, she leafed through the greasy register in front of her, running a finger down the list.
"Fourth Floor. Room Two."
Evan took the stairs to the Fourth Floor.
It was much quieter here, and the smell of disinfectant was stronger.
The corridor walls were painted white. The paint had yellowed, but at least there was no mold.
The wooden floor had been kept reasonably clean.
Straight ahead, the main hall faced three Offices. A corridor ran off to either side, with six wards and twenty-four beds in total.
Evan knocked on the door to Room Two and went in.
Then he stopped short.
Four people were already inside.
Two men and two women, all in their twenties or thirties.
Their clothes gave away what they did. The two men were laborers, their clothes still stained with factory grease and smelling of fish.
The two women wore heavy makeup and plunging necklines. They were clearly sex workers.
And Evan recognized one of the men.
Carey.
The supervisor from Bryce Transport Company.
Carey had grown haggard in the few days since Evan had last seen him.
His face was deathly pale, his eyes bloodshot, and his lips cracked and peeling.
Yet he was the best dressed of the group:
He wore a gray jacket that was still in decent condition, reasonably crisp trousers, and a brand-new flat cap.
He had pulled the brim low, as if trying to hide something.
Evan spotted a few red patches on his neck and cheeks. He knew their color and pattern all too well.
The moment Carey saw Evan enter, he stiffened. Then he instinctively lowered his head, letting the brim of his cap hide most of his face.
There was no concealing his embarrassment.
The supervisor who had once spat at Evan while berating him now sat in the same drug trial room, waiting to trade his body for a few dollars.
Evan did not stare. He turned toward the man behind the desk.
He was a middle-aged man in a white coat, wearing Wire-Rimmed Glasses and a white mask. His hair was neatly combed, and his nails were immaculately trimmed.
In this shabby clinic, he was the only person who looked like a real doctor.
Doctor Yuri. The owner of the clinic.
"Arkham, your timing is excellent," Yuri said, rising with a smile.
Evan paused. "Is there a new job?"
Yuri nodded and handed him a document from the desk.
"One that suits you very well."
"You've heard that Magic Bullet has gone on sale, haven't you?"
606. Arsphenamine. Magic Bullet.
The name had appeared frequently in newspaper medical sections over the past few months.
It was the only drug of this era that could actually kill Treponema pallidum, and it had just gone on sale that year.
The papers called it God's gift to humanity, but its price was fit for a god as well.
A full course of treatment cost between one and three hundred U.S. Dollars, depending on the severity of the illness and the doctor's conscience.
For the poor, that was an impossible sum.
A Harbor worker could toil for half a year without eating or drinking and still come up short.
All five people in the room looked up at once. Carey was so excited that he sprang from his chair.
Yuri waved for everyone to sit down.
"We don't need you to test a drug that's already on the market. This trial is for a new drug of the same kind."
He adjusted his Wire-Rimmed Glasses, his tone settling into professional calm.
"We're at the screening stage. We need to establish whether you can tolerate the new drug. The process is simple."
"Two days. You'll take it by mouth twice a day."
"Food and lodging are provided. No blood draws. You'll only need to describe how you feel and let me examine you once a day."
"I guarantee your symptoms will improve. There may be fairly serious Side Effects. The pay is one U.S. Dollar a day."
"The trial will take place here in my clinic. You can't leave the ward during those two days. If you withdraw early, you won't be paid, and the medication will stop."
He looked around at the five faces in the room.
"Are you willing?"
None of the five hesitated.
Of course they were.
One U.S. Dollar a day, food and lodging included, and a chance to cure Syphilis.
For everyone in that room, there was nothing to think about.