Minutes to Burn

Chapter 22

A man entered Samantha's room through the crash door, his movements slow and labored in his blue space suit. Samantha rose to her tiptoes and peered through his mask. "Who are you?" she asked suspiciously.

"Martin Foster. Infectious Disease." The doctor extended his hand. "I'm cross-covering from Hopkins."

Samantha shook the gloved hand, feeling slightly ridiculous. "Samantha Everett."

"Yes," he said. "I know."

"How are our patients?"

"Besides you?" Dr. Foster shook his head. "Going downhill. The pilot started with GI symptoms this morning."

"Goddamnit," Samantha said. "It's so frustrating having the anti-serum right here in our hands and not being able to…" She grimaced. "Because of legal ramifications."

"Well," Dr. Foster said, removing a needle, "you are showing antibodies as well as antigens. If your body hasn't rejected them by tomorrow morning and the absolute viral count is decreasing, we'll get clearance to use the antiserum on the others." He smiled. "There was something of a public outcry."

Samantha's face lit up, almost comically. "Are you serious?" She held out her arm, clenching her fist to give him a good vein. He bent over, concentrating. Samantha couldn't wipe the smile from her face. "You know," she said, "they say a space suit puts ten pounds on you."

Dr. Foster looked up. "I thought that was a TV camera," he said dryly.

"That too." Samantha leaned over, glancing at his rear end. "Christ, no wonder I never get dates."

Dr. Foster finished drawing, pinching the needle off with a cotton ball. Samantha held the cotton ball in place, bending her arm and elevating it. "Is Tom in yet? He's been off cavorting-I haven't been able to get ahold of him."

"It was really irresponsible for him to take off Christmas Day," Dr. Foster said with a slight smile, speaking loudly so that Samantha could hear him through his mask. "Maybe you should speak to his superiors."

"I am his superiors. And when you're the world's leading viral elec-tron microscopist, you shouldn't take Christmas off." She pounded her fist into her hand, imitating a drill sergeant. "There are responsibilities that come with this job. Sacrifices. That's why I haven't had a date in forty years."

"I thought it was the space suit and the ten pounds."

"That too."

"And your intimidating demeanor."

"All right-don't push your luck. I just need Tom to run a sample under the EM. I'd do it myself, but they won't let me out."

The tremendously exacting electron microscope, hypersensitive to minute vibrations and electromagnetic interference, had to be bolted into the concrete basement floor and surrounded with layer upon layer of copper mesh. There was no way they'd release Samantha to go down there herself, but she was anxious to get micrographs of the sample from Sangre de Dios.

"I'll have him paged," Dr. Foster said. "I'm sure he'll come in for you."

"Thanks. And get here early tomorrow to draw on me so we can get the antiserum into the patients."

"Assuming your blood work comes back fine."

Samantha waved him off. "Assume away. Just move your ass."

Dr. Foster paused on his way out, looking at her with concern. "Are you all right with all this?"

Samantha smiled. She pointed to the test tube that Donald had sent over, lying on its side on the counter. "Already on to the next thing," she said.

"Well," he said. "Maybe when you get out of here, we could go and get a cup of coffee. Or maybe see a movie."

"Don't you mean 'if I get out of here?'" Samantha asked.

"I'm comfortable with 'when,' " Dr. Foster said. "And you're avoiding the question."

"Well, there's a lot going…I don't really…" Samantha was worrying her bangs with her hand. She stopped, looked at her hand, and lowered it. "Yes," she said. "I'd like that."